


Madness and Other Deadly Sins

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Dark, Descent into Madness, Drug Abuse, F/M, Loneliness, Medical Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:28:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Alone and plagued by hallucinations, the Lone Wanderer is forced to leave Charon behind and attempt to forge a new life in the only place she can be free: a ramshackle bed-and-breakfast inhabited by raiders.





	1. Vagrant

My bare feet slip on the hard gravel, and I curse.

Because of this damn Psycho, I've been going back and forth between the autumn-leaf dress and my normal gear. The raiders helped me with finding my guns and getting them onto me, but when I shift to the barefoot princess, all I've got weaponry-wise is a tiny carving knife. No idea what the fuck that correlates to in real life, if it's anything at all.

The Brahmin's left head glances back at me but doesn't say anything. I've seen them as their normal selves a few times so far, but the raider that I refer to as 'the devil' hasn't changed at all. He's been stuck in that same form, the creeping black figure surrounded by blood and fog, the horned skull on his head like a mask, hiding his true features. I can't see his legs very well, but based on his movements it looks like he has more than two, and all of them have far too many joints.

It's been two days since I left Charon in Farragut West, and as Doctor Barrows predicted, my sanity is gone. Shattered. Obliterated worse than ground zero in 2077. The raiders are kind enough about it. They think it's hilarious that the devil hasn't changed at all for me, although the devil himself isn't amused. He stays away from me, though, since I'm still so scared of him. I'm grateful for that, because it only reinforces what they keep telling me—he's not actually the devil, I'm not dead, and above all, I can't trust anything or anyone.

There's a jolt and I'm back to wearing boots again. The Brahmin is replaced by the male and female raiders, walking side by side. The man is about thirty, dark-skinned, with almond-shaped eyes and long lashes. He's shirtless, has a crowbar dangling by his side, and keeps a rifle slung over his back. He'd introduced himself as Roe.

The woman, who apparently is his partner, is a coarse-looking woman with dyed hair. The sides of her head are shaved down and there's a brilliant shock of pink hair sticking straight up from the top of her scalp. She's really easy-going and although she isn't as talkative or kind as Roe, I like her a good bit. Her name is Badger.

The devil, though, doesn't change, even though everything else looks as normal as it usually does. The sky is pale blue, and all around us are rocks and dead trees and a hot breeze, but the devil stands alone as the one thing in the wasteland that _should not be._ The ragged hem of his dusty robes swirls around his triple-jointed legs as he walks, and the skull wobbles as he looks around.

Badger and Roe had introduced him to me as The Sadist, but now they've taken to referring to him as 'The Satanist'. He isn't very happy about the change.

Me, on the other hand, I can't help but think of him as anything but the devil. It plays into my doubts, that perhaps my forsaken religion really is true, that a monster such as he could wander amongst humans and lead others astray. It could actually be that the Psycho had _opened_ my eyes and mind to the reality of the world, not _blinded_ them...

But that's not conducive to keeping my head on straight, so I stop thinking about it.

“We'll be at our camp soon,” Badger says. “God, I can't wait to get back and get something real to eat!”

“Yeah, if those damn Redtooth bitches didn't steal all of our Insta-Mash while we were away.” Roe likes to complain about them. Apparently they're another raider gang that skirmishes with these guys. The Redtooth gang lives at a baseball field nearby—they're kids, really, all around sixteen years old, who play around and kill for fun.

My own gang lives at an old B&B near Bigtown. I'm getting concerned that it's been two days of walking and we still aren't there, but when all of us have on-and-off hallucinations, we don't exactly make good time. Or even go in the right direction.

The devil pauses at the crest of the hill, and Badger squints up at him. “You see anything, Satanist?”

“We're in view of the house,” the devil says, “unless no one else can see it?”

Badger and Roe join him, and I warily approach the group, hanging back a little. True to his word, there's an old, run-down house a few hundred yards away, out in the open. It's not great, but at least it's a standing structure.

“Yes,” Roe groans. “I want a fire and a change of pants.”

I want a bath, personally, but I'll settle for a fire. “You guys have any alcohol to spare?” I ask hopefully.

Badger gives me a look. I can almost hear her thinking, _As if you've done anything to earn it!_ But she says, “Roe's got a few beers.”

I deflate. “Alright.”

Damn and fuck. I shouldn't complain, though. I'm alive. I wasn't raped. Charon, as far as I know, is alive too. And he's safe, away from me. I think about what might have happened if I'd stayed with him—eventually, I would have mistaken him for a feral ghoul and killed him, or Charon would have overridden my orders and taken all of my weapons, and locked me up at home like a genuine crazy person. And I'd have to stay in that depressing house all day and stare out the windows, stuck with my lover as a caretaker until I finally hung myself.

Being out here isn't much better, staying with these raiders, but at least Charon is apart from me, he's safe, and I'm not going to go absolutely batshit. Staying moving, staying with people who understand me... it helps.

“What do we do, anyway?” I ask tiredly. “I mean for food? Hunting, scavenging, raiding?”

“All of the above,” Roe says. “You'll learn.”

I'm worried, honestly. I've never gone hungry, not in my entire life.

Badger swears as we near the bed and breakfast. The earth is scorched near the back of the house, and hardened remains are splattered all over the grass. “Damn kids.”

It looks like the Redtooth gang had, in fact, gone through here. And left one of their own.

The devil picks up an arm, and it looks huge in his spindly hands. “Go check on our food.”

“Yessir,” Badger says cheerfully, and hops down into the basement, a sand-bagged pit in the ground. I wait, nervous, an outsider amongst monsters. Even with all that I've done, I never imagined myself to be in a group like this. Never.

“Shit,” Badger calls. “Yeah, it's gone. All of it.”

The devil shrugs. “Alright, then. Start up the fire.”

Roe joins her, and the two of them bend over the coals of a firepit. The devil looks straight at me, and I flinch. The empty eyeholes of the skull yawn back into darkness.

“You,” he says. “Help me with this.”

I bite my lip and go a little closer. “With what?”

“This mess,” the devil says, gesturing with the human arm at the rest of the dried-up gore on the ground. “Take the biggest pieces and pile them up.”

He tosses the arm into the house, and stares at me.

“Oh... okay,” I say, and go for the largest part I can find, part of the torso and the thighs, all attached together. The calf is hanging onto one thigh by a few threads, kept in place by the remainder of the rubbery joint of the knee. I drag it over to the arm and then pause.

“So, uhm, are we going to burn this, then? I guess that's easier than burial.”

The devil cocks his head at me, holding a foot in his hand.

Down in the pit, Roe laughs at my naivety. “God, no. Burn it? You're holding dinner for the next few days.”

I flinch, jerking away from the pieces of the corpse as if it had dissolved into a nest of snakes. “Oh my god,” I whimper. “You... you guys are literally going to eat this?”

“Better than starvation,” Roe says cheerfully. “Right, Badger?”

“Damn straight,” she says. “It's old meat but if you cook it enough, and smoke it a little, it should kill most of the bad stuff in there.”

My stomach is empty but churning. “Oh god,” I say. “Is that why... why raiders hang corpses from the walls and ceiling?”

“You've got it,” Roe says approvingly. “I take it you've cleared out some places, then.”

“Ah... yeah. Sorry,” I say. I keep forgetting that, technically, I'm a raider now too.

“No big deal,” Roe says. “Not like we want other raiders around. The less there are, the more we can get for ourselves.”

“As long as you don't fire on us, we won't have any problems,” Badger says with a smile. “And even if you do, that's usually easily forgotten too, right, darlin'?”

Roe grins as he explains, “Given our issues, we sometimes see each other as enemies. Leads to misunderstandings. So just remember to ask questions first, shoot later, and never approach anyone without their okay.”

“Especially Roe,” his partner says. “He's done the most Psycho. We have to leash him to the house so that he doesn't wander off during an episode.”

They both laugh, as if that's the most natural thing in the world.

I smile weakly. “Who's the best, then? As far as sanity goes?”

“Satanist is,” Badger says, “which is why he's the leader.”

The devil comes back, his slender arms full of a jumble of dried-out organs. “Enough chit-chat. Badger, start cooking the good stuff first. None of us have eaten in days, I want to enjoy our first meal back.”

I shudder.

The devil extends a rail-thin arm and points at me, the skull on his head bobbing. “Two days without food and you can still react like that? Impressive.”

“You don't have to eat,” Roe says, “but eventually you'll get hungry enough to wish you had. By then you'll be desperate for red meat, no matter what kind.”

I grimace, thinking of the vampires that protect Arefu. If those guys are crazy enough to drink all the blood out of a person in one sitting, then I can eat some half-spoiled human flesh, right?

...right?

The grimace twists into a scowl. “No need, I'll eat. It's just... really not what I'd prefer.”

“Me and you both,” Roe chuckles. “I'd like one of those peaches from Virginia myself. Have you ever had one?”

I shake my head.

“There's a hothouse that grows them,” Roe says. “They're _really_ expensive. We got a crate of them off of a caravan.”

He doesn't explain farther, but it's obvious that he meant _after_ they'd killed everyone.

The devil is working at peeling the skin off of our meal, the blackened digits working quickly. It's sickening to watch, both the fact that he's preparing human meat for consumption, and also to see those disgusting withered fingers moving so fluidly, eagerly. He looks like a complex machine, all of his legs bent at disturbing angles beneath him, head cocked and horned skull nearly falling off of his head.

“What's he doing?” Badger asks with a smirk. She likes to hear my depictions of the Sadist most.

“He's got about twelve legs now,” I say uncomfortably, “all mangled up beneath him. And he's got six fingers on each hand.”

The devil pauses to look at me.

“Shit,” Roe says, laughing. “Glad _I_ don't see him like that.”

“You must be reading some kind of bad mojo off of him to have such a pervasive hallucination,” Badger says. “Most I get is a permanently yellow sky. It hasn't been blue in _years.”_

“And for me,” Roe says, “Sometimes everything turns into a bird. The sun, the clouds, the ground, the house, the traps, the chains, the caravans, the trees, the food, the...”

I tune him out as he continues chattering. The devil sighs. After a few minutes, Badger shuts him up with a slap.

The devil hands down a cut of meat. “Got the spit ready?”

“Mm.”

Badger turns it now and then, and all of us are silent for awhile, except for Roe's mumbling as he rocks back and forth. Beside me, the devil is crouched, a dozen knees forced out all around him. His clawed fingers rub against each other.

“How did you guys all meet?” I ask.

Roe leaps to answer the question, happy to have something to talk about. “I'm from Michigan,” he says, “and I moved down here years ago, joined up with a group of raiders. Badger joined a few years back after her family was killed by mirelurks. We worked together for awhile, and then we had a falling out and the group split up. Some of us went down past DC, another group still lives in the area, hangs out near a metro station. So for a few months it was just Badger and I, and then the Sadist arrived and took over.”

“You're making it sound like he forced himself on us,” Badger says with a snort. “No, believe me, we were happy to have him.”

I glance at him. The devil is still twiddling his thumbs. “Why?”

“To be able to have a mostly-sane person to help guide us around? Someone willing to tolerate us and can threaten to shoot us in the face if we get too crazy, without even breaking a sweat? He's a damn good leader.”

“Enough flattery,” the devil says. “Is the food done yet?”

Badger checks it. “Still raw around the bone.”

I haven't asked why he's called the Sadist. I don't think I want to know, honestly.

“So what's your story?” Roe asks. “Let me guess—you went out to try to do some good, maybe make a few caps on the side. You get into a few tough fights and, without any other way out, use Psycho a few times. And pretty soon you're either crazy or addicted or both.”

“That's basically it.”

“No one _tries_ to get hooked on Psycho,” Badger says glumly. “It just... happens. You know?”

“You're addicted, then?” I ask. I'm surprised.

Badger turns her wrists out and even from above the pit, I can see scars on her arms from injection spots. “It's the rush,” she says. “All that adrenaline. I barely feel alive without it.”

I wrap my arms around my stomach. “I... I'm sorry.”

“Save it for yourself,” Badger advises. “You're stuck with us, too. None of us would be here if we didn't have these problems.”

“Check the food,” the devil orders.

Badger checks it over, then dumps the meat out into a shallow dish and hands it up. The devil pushes back the skull a little and eats, thin fingers tearing chunks of flesh out of the arm and devouring them without hesitation. I see a glimpse of sharp teeth and I look away.

“Hey you,” Badger says to me, “Hand down something else.”

“The Sadist gets to eat first,” Roe says, “since he's the leader.”

“I'm not arguing,” I say. The devil can eat all the human flesh he wants. I'm not about to get in his way, whether or not he really _is_ a supernatural entity.

Eventually it's my turn, and I'm given a calf. The foot is still attached, and the heel is blackened, the toes curled. I shudder, hating myself, and take a bite. It's steaming and fatty, delicious after two days without food. It tastes like Brahmin steak. It melts in my mouth and I blank out my mind, refusing to think about what I'm doing. Before I know it, everything is gone and I'm stuffed full.

I gag and hold back vomit.

“Don't waste anything,” the devil says, watching me. “It's not every day that you get to eat your enemies.”

I close my eyes, feeling my pulse in my eardrums. I feel sick, not just to my stomach, but like I'm fevered. The air is chilling after the scorching day, and a light sweat sweeps over my skin.

I want to go home. I want to be with Charon. I want to take a long bath and cry in my room.

But those days are over. I'm insane and dangerous, and I can never go back to Megaton again. I'm stuck here, with these broken people, these outcasts.

I hear Roe and Badger giggling and eventually they make their way upstairs. There's some whispers and creaking, and after a few minutes I hear throaty laughter and moans drifting down from upstairs.

I close my eyes, feeling tears drip down my face. _I miss Charon._

“Not very subtle, are they?” the devil asks, sitting down beside me. “You'll get used to it. It happens more nights than not.”

I shake my head, pressing my face against my knees. “I... I wanted to thank you,” I say, ignoring Badger's cries of pleasure. “For letting me join you guys. You don't know me, but you let me come along anyways.”

“What else could I do, after you saved us?” the devil replies. “Besides, a fourth person is added security.”

“Even without knowing anything about me?” I ask. “I could be anyone, you know. Talon merc, or a vampire, anything. I could be crazy enough to kill you guys.”

“I'm a light sleeper,” the devil says, amused. “I have had many attempts on my life, and none of them have come close to success. You don't scare me.”

I wish I could say the same.

“And it's no matter if you kill Roe or Badger,” the devil continues. “They mean nothing to me.”

I flinch. “Are you serious?”

“I am. If Badger is bothering you, go upstairs and shoot her in the head. Roe is so far gone, he probably won't even notice.”

“That's... that's sickening.”

The devil shrugs. “It's all the same to me.”

“Is that why they call you the Sadist?”

“Amongst other reasons,” he says.

We're silent for awhile. I try to close my ears to the couple upstairs, try not to think about the devil's suggestion. He's sick. It's sick. I shouldn't think about it, not when I'm out of my mind and so suggestible, but there's a desperate rage inside of me that is furious that Badger is able to make love to her man while I don't even know if mine is alive.

Eventually I fall asleep, beside the devil, with Badger and Roe still making a ruckus above us. Just as my eyes close, and dreams take me, my brain dimly registers the devil beside me, quietly eating the charred foot I'd left behind.

 


	2. Peasant

The morning sky is black with smoke. I sit up, my hair loose and falling into my eyes, and blink groggily. _Goddamn, I'm sore._ Slippery, warm leaves rustle over my skin as I stand—the hallucinatory dress is on again, so I know there's probably a few other things that aren't real right now.

I look up warily; the devil is sitting on the ground floor above me, chewing on a human heart as if it were an apple. If I hadn't seen his eagerness to eat human flesh yesterday, I might have thought that it was—but the slick, rubbery sounds of teeth slicing into arterial tissue might be enough to convince me anyway.

I stand. Roe and Badger are nowhere in sight. I stretch and look outside. The entire wasteland is aflame, which I suppose explains the black sky. All of the remaining grass is yellow and dried out, if not completely charred. In the far distance I see unspeakable horrors roaming the wasteland.

There's a low noise and I catch sight of a Brahmin near the house. I brighten, and make my way towards it.

“Hey, Badger,” I say, careful to avoid the flames as I approach the two raiders, “so I was wondering what exactly what we do around here. I mean, since I ate your food and everything. Is there a place where I can go to pick up some real food for us? Hopefully empty of people. I'm not really interested in killing anyone.”

The Brahmin stares at me, chewing its cud, and its right head jerks up and down.

“It's just that I know some people in the area,” I explain. “Bigtown, you know? And Arefu, they're both close, and I've got friends-”

“What the hell are you doing?”

I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand as I hear Badger behind me. “I... uh, I thought I was talking to you.”

Badger stares at me, then looks at the Brahmin.

“I mean, since you look like... like that most of the time anyway?”

I can hear Roe laughing from upstairs. Badger growls and flips him off without turning around. Roe only laughs harder.

“Sorry,” I say, cringing.

“It's a real Brahmin,” Badger says. “Gives us cheese and shit. If you feel better talking to it, go ahead.”

I feel like an idiot. “Sorry, I'm seeing a lot of weird things right now, so...”

Badger shrugs. “We all do. It's okay. Roe tried to convince me that the ground was made out of sugar bombs before.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I never ate any, but Roe put down about a gallon of dirt that day. Fuckin' idiot.”

“I can't imagine that that'd be good for digestion.”

“Constipated for days,” Roe says, joining us at the Brahmin. He places both hands around one of the faces. “ _Hello,_ Suzie. You are looking as beautiful as ever today.”

The Brahmin sticks a long tongue inside of its own nose.

Roe moves on to the next head. “And Miss Marie! You are simply ravishing—is that a new perfume I detect?”

Badger rolls her eyes. “He does this every morning. He says it makes them easier to milk if they're happy.”

“It's true,” Roe insists. “Suzie and Marie are gentle and pure. They need daily compliments and attention.”

“I thought that Brahmin were supposed to have a singular pronoun?”

“That,” Roe says, stabbing a finger at my chest, “insinuates that they're one animal. I mean, they _are,_ but they've got two independently-thinking brains, don't they? What beautiful, _smart_ ladies.”

Badger grabs my arm and tugs me away as Roe coos over it—ugh, _them,_ fine. Suzie lets out a long, low moo as we leave.

“He's impossible,” she grumbles. “I swear, this has been his routine for years. There's just no stopping him.”

“I think it's cute,” I say. “I've never heard of anyone treating a Brahmin like a real pet.”

“Suzie and Marie are his babies,” Badger grumbles. “Guess what that makes me?”

I laugh.

“So what were you talking to the Brahmin about?”

“Just curious about where our next meal is coming from. And about what all we do around here.”

“Honestly? Not much. Roe and I spend most of our time fucking, the Sadist walks around the wasteland and sets traps. Once in awhile we attack a caravan for shits and giggles, kill a few people, and have Suzie and Marie carry all of the loot back.” Badger pauses. “The biggest struggle we have out here is not going totally insane with nothing to do, you know?”

“We could try farming?”

Badger snorts. “With what water? That shit in the river? It'll kill us before we can grow anything. C'mon, are you trying to make honest people out of us?”

I shrug. “Just trying to think of something. I get bored easily.”

“Don't we all,” she says.

The devil shuffles outside, his many-jointed legs blurring beneath him. “Gonna go check the traps,” he says.

“Have a blast,” Badger says sardonically.

I watch the devil creep away, his robes passing through the flames as if nothing was there. I shudder.

“What's he hoping to find?” I ask.

Badger shrugs. “Who knows? I've never asked.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, really, you wanna know what he's out there looking for?”

“No,” I admit.

“Me neither.”

 

 

Badger was right. The day is slow as fuck. Roe brings back a bucket of Brahmin milk, smiling proudly, and I have a glass of it before falling asleep again. I drift in and out of sleep, my lips chapped, still feeling ill. Roe is restless, and he paces back and forth, mumbling to himself. Badger lays on the upper floor, drawing in a book, singing occasionally.

Around midday, the devil still has not returned, and Roe halts in front of me.

“I'm bored,” he says. “Tell me about your ghoul friend. Is he an idiot? Walking into a trap like he did?”

“Charon?” I ask, surprised. “Why do you want to know?”

“I'm _bored,”_ Roe says again, and picks at a scab on his arm. He seems jittery. “Look, you don't have to—have say anything, don't—just not... to _do,_ you know?”

“Okay, okay,” I say, lifting my hands. “Sit down at least.”

Roe collapses to the ground, staring at me, and bangs his head against the wall. Badger's snort is audible from the ground level.

“He's actually a slave,” I say.

“No _shit,”_ Roe says, leaning forward. “You saved a slave from being enslaved?”

“Mm. He belongs... _used_ to belong to me.” I pause, wondering if they're turned off by that admission, but neither of them says anything. “I bought him for a large sum of money. We... lived in Megaton together. See, there you're not allowed to bring a ghoul into the town unless they're a slave, so...”

“Ah,” Roe says.

“I loved him,” I say quietly.

“Coulda brought him with you,” Roe says. “If he loved you too, he woulda stayed. Like how Badger and I stay together.”

“As if you love me, you asshole,” Badger calls.

Roe leaps to his feet. “I love you! You are the most beautiful woman to walk this wasteland, an angel from above, mother to our beautiful bovine children-”

“Can it,” she growls, and tosses something down at him. Roe laughs, ducking his head, and sits back down. He seems pleased with himself.

“Charon wouldn't do that,” I say. “He hates raiders. And besides, I wouldn't be able to bring him into a dangerous situation like this. Psycho messes me up. I haven't tried to kill any of you guys yet, but it's only a matter of time, you know? I couldn't put Charon at risk.”

“Shame,” Roe says, then lowers his voice. “I might have wanted to do the same if I knew Badger had a place to go. But neither of us do. Badger might be able to recover, make something of herself—she never has really bad trips. But no one wants a raider to live with them, and Badger likes killing and shooting up. She doesn't _want_ to leave.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I know what it's like to want to protect your friends.”

“Mm,” Roe says. “At least the Satanist does a good job at keeping us safe.”

He smirks, and then continues, “You know? Drawing pentagrams around the house... sacrificing virgins to cast an unholy spell of protection upon us... communing with demons...”

“Probably not too far off from the truth,” Badger calls down to us. “Watch it, though, he's out in the yard.”

Roe covers his mouth, snickering, and starts laughing outright when the devil walks in. He brushes past us without saying anything.

“How was it?” Badger asks.

“Traps were empty,” the devil says shortly, and retreats down to the pit.

“It's gonna be a bad day,” Roe complains. “He's _never_ happy if there's nothing in the trap.”

“Does... does he ever bring anything back from them?”

“Sometimes,” Roe says. “Food, usually. Yao guai, human meat, stuff like that.”

“Woah, woah,” I say, stopping him. “The devil traps _humans?”_

“Don't sound so surprised,” Badger scoffs. “You're talking about the guy who put land mines all the way around the back of the house.”

“But... I thought that human meat was, like, a last-ditch effort to stop starvation sort-of-thing?”

“Not for the Sadist,” Roe mutters.

“So, I think I'm missing something. _How_ is he the most sane out of us, again?” I'm horrified. Yeah, they're raiders, but _still._

“Because he doesn't often hallucinate,” Roe says, “and he's not addicted to any chems.”

“I think that might be a narrow definition of sanity.”

Roe shrugs.

Dammit, how did I end up in this place? If this isn't rock-bottom, I don't know what is. I thought maybe that alcoholism was my lowest point, but life has a nasty way of surprising you with just how bad things can get.

“ _Shit,”_ Badger snarls from upstairs. “I'm out of blue again.”

“Whatcha drawing?” Roe asks.

“The sky,” she replies. “How it used to look, anyway.”

“Look alive,” the devil growls, hauling himself up out of the pit. “Someone hit an alarm.”

We all look at each other.

“Seriously?” he demands. “No one else heard it? I'm not imagining things, am I?”

“I'll go take a look,” I say, eager for something to do. “What kind of an alarm was it?”

“Just some cans I'd strung up,” the devil says. “Go use that outcropping next to the house, take a look from there. I've got other traps that you might fall into.”

“Noted,” I grumble. _Jesus._ This guy is the real lunatic.

“Ooh,” Badger says, standing up. “No need, he's coming our way. It's one of those Bigtown fuckers.”

She grabs Roe's rifle and cocks it.

“Woah, hold on!” I protest. “A Bigtown guy? Let me talk to him.”

The devil sighs and signals for her to put the gun down. “Mercy is wasted on them,” he says to me. “If we didn't have enough food for the rest of the day, I'd hit you for suggesting something like that.”

I draw myself up to my full height. “Excuse me, I have _friends_ there. So sorry for not wanting you guys to slaughter them.”

“They're not your friends,” Badger growls. “They're easy marks. Fat and soft and whining. Better to just get them out of the way before they call the Regulators on us.”

I shake my head. “I don't care. If you guys are that worried about Regulators, then leave them to me. Give me all the shitty jobs you want... just don't kill innocent people.”

The devil clatters his teeth. I back away, then say, my voice firm now that I'm a few yards away from him, “I'm going to go talk to him, okay? Don't you dare shoot.”

I reach the top of the outcropping and sigh. The guy below is none other than Shorty.

“Dammit,” I mutter and then raise my voice. “Shorty? What the fuck are you doing outside Bigtown?”

Idiot. The guy's just barely over five feet tall, and he thinks he can wander around the wasteland like he's some kind of swashbuckling hero? Did he forget that _I_ was the one who gave him the Chinese pistol on his hip, that I had to drag his sniveling ass out of Germantown?

Shorty looks up, startled, and then his face breaks out into a huge smile. “Helena! Oh, I'm so glad to see you! Dusty said that he wasn't seeing any raider movement around here, and I figured that if they were dead, I could grab some guns or food...”

He trails off when he sees the devil in the doorway of the B&B, fifteen yards behind us.

“They're not dead,” I say gently. “And if I were you, I'd warn everyone in Bigtown to stay away from here. Don't leave again, alright? Go home.”

“Helena...” he says, his voice low. “What are you doing?”

I sigh. “Psycho. I can't go back to Megaton like this.”

“But... but you know Red can cure addictions! She's real good at it!”

“It's not an addiction,” I say. “I got hit with permanent effects. Brain damage. I'm too dangerous to stay around normal people.”

He bites his lip, and then says, “Your ghoul is staying in Bigtown.”

My heart stops. “Wh... what? You mean Charon?”

“Mm. He was in Arefu yesterday, and he's going to leave Bigtown sometime this afternoon. He's... looking for you.”

I could cheer at the top of my lungs or break down in tears. I'm torn between either reaction and don't do either of them. _Charon is looking for you._ He cares about me enough to be out in the wastes alone?

 _Or is he just contractually obligated to look?_ I wonder, and the hope and joy in my throat sours. _Maybe he'll keep looking until he finds out for sure that I'm dead, and then he'll go to Underworld to pledge himself to Gaja..._

“Stay here,” I say, my voice thick. “I'm going to write a message for him.”

I drop down the outcropping. “Hey, Badger? You have a spare piece of paper? A pencil, maybe?”

“Yeah, what for? Is the Bigtown pussy gonna do your grocery shopping?”

“My slave is looking for me,” I say. “I need to tell him to shove off.”

Badger drops the leather-bound journal, along with a pen. “Have at it. Best to break any ties you can, right?”

I slowly return to Shorty, flipping through the journal. Badger's artwork is filling most of the pages, all of it strange and beautiful—things she's seen in hallucinations, detailed pictures of corpses with their bellies slit open, birds flying from distended intestines. A few erotic pictures of Roe that I _really_ didn't want to see, and then the last page, the early evening sky. It's half-finished.

I tear out a blank page, feeling a twinge of guilt. It's clear that Badger uses drawing as her escape, and yet she gave me an entire precious page so that I could get a message to Charon.

I click the pen.

_Chare-_

_Sorry for dropping out on you. I wanted you to be safe, and that wasn't going to be with me. I sort of did that_ thing _that you were always worried about... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to leave you. But I had to._

_I've just met up with Shorty, and I'm glad to hear you're alive._

_I was staying with some raiders here, but I'll leave after Shorty takes this to you. I'm really not interested in you coming after me, so don't come looking. Also don't bother them. I feel bad for them—well, two of them, anyway. I don't really wanna think about you getting all pissed off and shooting them just to take your frustrations out on something._

_Anyway, I want you to go down to Underworld and give your contract to Gaja. I'm dead—or at least I will be when you get this._

_I'm sorry._

_Your favorite master,_

_Helena_

I frown, rereading it once, then add, _PS: you might not believe that this is from me and go looking anyway. I'll save you the trouble... something only the REAL Helena would know is that despite how much of a stoic nasty closed-mouthed jerk you are, you actually orgasm really loudly and scream my name. And sometimes I have to hold my hands over your mouth so that the neighbors don't hear._

I hold back a smirk as I finish the last sentence, then fold it in two and hand it to Shorty. “Take that to Charon, alright?”

To my horror, he opens it up and scans the letter, turning dark red at the last paragraph. “Wh-what? You and-”

“Shut it,” I groan, covering my ears. “I didn't expect you to read the damn thing!”

“More importantly, you'll be _dead when he gets this?”_ Shorty demands. “You've got to be kidding me! You can't kill yourself!”

I shrug, faking a bravado that I don't feel. “And live a life like this? Seeing things change around me, not knowing what's real? Being forced to live with those guys down there and put up with Satan himself?”

I pause. “Okay, so I'm not sure if I'll actually do it. But I might, and if nothing else, I want Charon to think that I am.”

I  _need_ him to think I'm dead.

Wandering around alone... what a damn fool.

Shorty takes in a deep breath and then hugs me. “You're the boss. You... you take care of yourself, okay? None of us are _ever_ gonna forget you, least of all me.”

I squeeze back. “Mm. Thanks.”

Shorty puts the letter into his shirt pocket and clears his throat. “I guess I'll head back now.”

“See ya around, Shorty.”

I watch him leave, until he's all the way up the hill and out of sight. Hopefully he'll make it back safely. We're already pretty close to Bigtown, so he should be fine, right?

But that only means that Charon's gonna come down here looking for me all the sooner, so I've got to book it if I want to avoid him. I don't doubt that he'll grill Shorty about exactly where he saw me, and try to find me before I do something stupid.

I return to Badger and hand her the journal. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says, eyeing me. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” I lie. “Listen, you guys, thanks for looking out for me, but I think I'm going to leave. I... don't think that I'm cut out to be a raider.”

“Awh,” Roe says. “I was hoping you'd stay with us. The Sadist never wants to do anything fun, and you can't play poker with only two people.”

“Sorry,” I say, meaning it. “Stay safe, okay?”

I pass by the devil as I leave, giving him a wary look but nothing else. He's one of the few people I've only grown to dislike the more I know about him. He grunts as I pass by, and I see his withered black fingers start rubbing against each other again.

 


	3. Vassal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LW explores another deep hole. It's less fun without Charon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for y'all, because I'm not a total bitch.
> 
> Enjoy. ^^

I hardly know what I'm doing as I stumble away from the raider's camp. My mind is fuzzy, my heart pounding in my chest, and my feet move off-kilter, as if the ground is turning beneath me. I've got just enough presence of mind to avoid one of the devil's damned frag mines, and then I straighten my back and walk out into the wasteland. And then I am alone.

I... I never thought that I'd come to this point in my life. As I walk, I shrug off my M1 Garand, and it hits the ground with a dull thud. The loss of its weight is both a relief and a heartbreak.

My M1 has been, essentially, my lifeline, and almost a friend to me. You know how you get attached to things over time. The smooth steel, the feel of it in my hands, the resounding boom it makes when it fires... Well, no use in waxing eloquent about it now. It's been left behind, and if I retrace my steps to go back for it, I might meet Charon on the way.

I drop my ammo belt next. Then my laser pistol. At this point it's just me and my 10mm and my hip flask. I'd left my bag back at the B&B. Hopefully Badger and Roe can make better use of the stuff than I can.

I look at a wide, flat rock, tempted to sit down and rest for awhile. But Charon will be on his way soon, and I want to think somewhere alone.

I'd thought about dying when I was a kid in the Vault. When I first learned what it was, thinking about Mom, and when I was five and found out that Mr. Palmer had died in his sleep.

And when I was older I'd thought about killing myself. Given my childhood, it wasn't exactly surprising. But I still had Dad to live for, and Jonas, and Mrs. Palmer, and it was never anything that I _seriously_ considered, you know? Just a longing for another place where I didn't have to fear Butch or Amata's drama, where I could escape the derision of my peers.

I never thought that I would be faced with something like this.

_Should I...?_

Hot wind blows in my face, and my feet crunch on dry grass. I'm back to reality, where the sky is a light shade of blue, and the clouds are high above my head, thin, wispy strands that blow away before they can form a rainstorm.

I take the pistol out of its holster, and turn it over in my hands. I remove all but one of the bullets, and drop them onto the sun-baked earth. _Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop._ The bullets roll away from each other, and glitter in the light like tiny, dark jewels.

Shuddering, I lift the pistol to my mouth and shove the barrel tight against the soft palate. My tongue quivers, tasting the metal and gunpowder. I squeeze my eyes closed, tears streaming down my face, and press my finger against the trigger.

I let out a choked sob, flinching, expecting to have a blast go through my brain, but I hadn't pulled it hard enough—just enough to feel pressure of my fingertip on the metal.

I stand there, pistol in my mouth, shaking, and I wonder if I'll ever have the strength to do it.

I think about the life I'll never have with Charon. Growing in trust with him, my fiercest ally, my protector, always having him by my side. Taking down Talon Merc with him once and for all, and finding my dad together. Lazy afternoons spent with my lover, slicked with sweat and naked, curled up so close and intertwining, fitting together like the pieces of a pistol. Getting old and retiring, and living with him in harmony, in our rusty old house looking over Megaton's nuke.

Even if I don't pull the trigger, I still can't go back.

The Psycho's rotted my mind, and if I let Charon take me, there's too much of a chance that I'll go berserk and hurt him—maybe even kill him.

I let out a loud cry and throw the gun aside.

There's nothing I can do. I can't kill myself, no matter what I told myself... I'm a coward. Visions of the fiery hell Mrs. Palmer had warned me about come to mind, and as much as I despise religion, something from my youth and my training won't let me do it. Won't let me come close to the afterlife of eternal damnation that the men and women of thousands of years ago believed in.

_They will be thrown into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth._

So I keep on walking, even as my boots fade away and my gear turns into the long autumn-leaf dress. I unsheathe the paring knife on by my side and flip it idly. I have no destination, and no hope. I will walk until I fall, and fight anything that comes my way. And if I tire of my journey, I will sit down and let myself die of hunger or thirst.

I don't know how long it's been, but I'm weakening already. Hungry, but still sickened from the meal of human flesh, I spit bile up now and then, still crying. My hallucinations tell me that my tears are blood and mercury, red and silver mixing in together and running over my hands. My feet bleed on the rocks, leaving a trail for the terrible hellish monsters in the wasteland to follow. I see their huge dark heads turning as they smell my desperation and fear, and I have no way of knowing if they are genuine enemies or just more figments of my imagination.

At one point, I come to the edge of a hill, and without looking carefully enough, I step down into a hole. My ankle rolls, and I lose my balance. I have the oddest sensation of slowing time as the world whips around me. I fall, and as I stand, I find myself looking down at my own body.

 _Am I dead?_ I study myself, and bite my lip. My leathers are bloody, and my eyes closed. I'd fallen into a pit filled with spikes. _Dammit._ Looks like one of the devil's traps. There's one spearing out the back of my leg, a few pressing against my stomach but not torn through, and three slender ones coming out of my shoulder.

Of course I'd be killed by that bastard before even getting an hour away from their camp.

I'm not as upset as I expected to be. In fact, I'm numb—just a few quiet, sad feelings of loss, as I stare at my own corpse. A waste of a human life. I could have done so much more, I think, if I hadn't been caught by those slavers and forced to use Psycho.

I find myself floating away, raised up as if by invisible hooks. I am helpless against this current, with nothing to grab onto, nothing to keep myself grounded. _Is this when I get thrown down to hell?_

The birds out of Badger's notebook fill the air around me, brightly-colored and weaving around me, their wings going straight through my transparent body. I'm surrounded by chatters and calls, these songbirds all singing and watching as I drift on the breeze.

_If this is being dead, then this... this might be okay._

I'm taken by the birds, and I see Gob and Nova in Megaton, Nova cheerfully serving Jericho a beer, while Gob watches her and sighs. Jericho laughs at something she says and slaps her ass. She shoves his shoulder, pretending to be in a huff, but she's smiling. Gob looks away.

_Poor Gob._

The birds close in on me, and I'm in another place—watching Shorty hand the letter over to Charon. His ice-cold eyes scan the page, and then he closes it hard in his fist.

“Damn foolish girl,” he growls, and grabs Shorty by the front of his shirt. “ _Where did you see her?_ Tell me!”

Shorty stammers out a few rough directions, and Charon takes off at a sprint. I touch his arm as he passes me by, and I go through him.

_I'm sorry, Charon. I guess you'll find me soon enough. Please don't be angry._

I see a woman singing in a far-away place, her black skin a stark contrast against the gold bangles around her wrists. Her hips twist back and forth, and a male audience roars at her and tosses caps up on onto the stage. She smiles as she sings, and white teeth flash.

Far across the sea I watch a ghoul laugh as he shoots a prisoner, and the man beside him does nothing but watch. He scratches his arm, revealing a deep peel of skin where the veins beat in plain sight, and the two men watch the blood of the prisoner spread out across the rusted floor.

The scenes are moving faster now. An image of the Vault, where my father had framed my mother's favorite Bible verse: _Revelation 21:6. I am Alpha and Omega. The beginning... and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life, freely._

I see slavers catch a crying woman, far to the north.

I see a land of water.

I see the fires of an army far to the west.

I see the burning sun, and the sweat on the brow of a young woman they call the Lone Wanderer as she slips and falls to her death on a pit of spikes.

And at long last, I see a darkened room with a terminal, and a voice is calling out from it, _“If there is anyone who can hear this, please help. My name is James... James Escobar. I used to be a doctor and a scientist. I am trapped in a simulation. There is nothing I can do from here, but if you can make it inside, there is a special sequence you can run to free us. Please... if there is anyone listening, please help."_

And as I am realizing that I am hearing my father's voice, the birds surround me again, sending brightly-colored feathers spilling around me in a hurricane. They close in tightly, screeching, and their wings block out all light.

 

 

I awaken with a shuddering gasp, feeling hot lines jolt agony through my body. There are two rough hands on my body, holding me up, and I pry open an eye.

“Ch... Charon,” I whisper, and smile weakly.

My lover glances down at me, pulling a stimpak away from my arm. “You're a damn fool, you know that?”

“Charon... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...” I weep, reaching for him—my fingers brush against his chest, his face.

“You're not out of danger yet,” he mutters. “Good thing I have another.”

Charon depresses the syringe into my other arm, and I sigh as the solution pulses through my body. I can feel my wounds stitching up, the hole in my ankle closing, a burn in my right shoulder as the injury closes.

“I'm sorry...”

“You've got a bad fever,” he says. “And it looks like you might have some kind of blood infection. The stimpaks won't be enough to keep you alive if you don't get enough water.”

“Charon...” I say, my eyes closing, and another tear drips down my face.

Before I fall into oblivion again, I hear him humming quietly.

 

 

It's daylight when I wake up. Early morning, from the looks of it, unless that's just another hallucination—and my back is sore. I'm laying in a man's lap, my head resting on his thigh, mouth pressed against his belly, and I sit up with a groan.

The man I'm with is neither handsome nor unattractive—he's got a flat nose, tanned skin, and annoyed hazel eyes. By the look of him, he's about ten years or so older than I am, with dark hair and a sour expression.

It's not Charon.

“Who the hell are you?” I croak, scrambling away from him as fast as I am able. My shoulder aches.

The man leans back, the corner of his mouth pulling down. “Are you serious?”

I stare.

“Ugh. I'm...” he waves at himself, “the Sadist. From the bed and breakfast?”

“Oh my god,” I mumble. “I honestly didn't know if you were human or not.”

His frown deepens. “You are lucky that I decided to follow you. You forgot your pack, so I came after you, only to find you in one of my traps.”

I offer a weak grin. “Well, you've finally caught something, are you happy now?”

I'm thinking of his foul mood when he returned the first morning, having found nothing, and the whispered comments that Badger and Roe had made.

“Barely,” he grumbles. “It is not my goal to be rescuing allies from my traps. I would have been far more pleased to have found a farmer instead of _you.”_

“Jesus. What the hell do you do with them?”

“Do you truly want to know?”

No, I don't. I'm looking into the Sadist's eyes and I'm amazed. I never would have thought that the devil would wear such a disarming skin. It's a welcome sight after having been watching his many-jointed legs and hollow eyes for the past few days.

But his character beneath is no different, and after that question I am sharply reminded of the fact.

“I don't want to know,” I admit, “but I think maybe I should ask. Find out what kind of company I keep.”

The Sadist gives me a long, measured look, and then takes off the tattered silken vest that he's got overtop his leather armor. He lays it in front of me and my stomach turns.

The inside of it is packed with knives and utensils—medical scissors, a carrot peeler, a sharpened screwdriver, tiny pliers, and many dozens of knives of all different lengths and blades. I recoil away from it, his insinuations clear and as sharp as his tools, and he puts it back on, carefully buttoning up the front.

“Does that answer your question?” he asks, calmly.

“Uh... yes. That's why they call you the Sadist?”

He doesn't answer, and I don't ask again. I suppose it _was_ a pretty stupid question.

“How often do you... uhm... find something in a trap?”

“Not often enough,” he replies.

“Are they usually alive when you get to them?”

“If I make my rounds early enough, they are,” he says. “Though not for long.”

I think for awhile, rubbing my ankle. There's a large pink scar where a spike had gone though. “You remind me of someone I met in Paradise Falls. Carolina Red. You know her?”

“I take care to not meet people in the area,” the Sadist says, “unless they come to me.”

“Huh. Well, she had a lot to say about all the messed up shit she's done and seen. Thought you could be her brother or something.”

“I am from out of the area.”

“Huuuh,” I say, still trying to subtly scoot away from the Sadist. I let out a shrill squawk as the earth beside the pit caves, and the Sadist grabs my arm, hauling me away from danger.

“What the hell are you trying to do?” he gripes. “Undo all my work? I'm not doing this a second time, you know. I'm not very good at fixing people.”

“Uh... yeah...” I let out a nervous laugh, pulling his hand off of my arm. The instant I do, I collapse onto the ground and nearly roll into the pit once more.

“Goddammit,” the Sadist mutters. “You can't even walk on your own?”

“I think I feel fuzzy,” I admit. “Kinda weak.”

The Sadist reaches for my face and I flinch away, but he's only touching my forehead. “Your fever has spiked.”

I rest the back of my hand on my temples. “Oh... yeah... you're right. I guess I do feel a little warm...”

“Let's get you back to the camp,” the Sadist says. “You're in no condition to be out here by yourself.”

He pulls my arm around his shoulder and we begin a shaky walk back to the B&B. The day is heating up—it's a good thing that we're moving now, when it's still early in the morning.

“That's probably why you forgot your pack,” the Sadist says. “Fogged up from being sick.”

“Er... no, I...” I trail off, thinking about my failed suicide attempt. _Jesus._ What was I thinking? Shame creeps up the back of my neck. No matter how bad things get, I shouldn't try something like that, right? I can't tell the Sadist what I had been thinking. “Nevermind. Thanks for getting it for me.”

“Including your weapons?” The Sadist shakes my M1 in front of my eyes.

I smile. “You found it! Hey, you're not so bad.”

He grunts. “I just didn't want a former group member to die while on my territory.”

“From one of your own traps, no less.” I pause, thinking about the shining tools underneath his vest. I'm pressed up close to the Sadist, unable to support my own weight, and I can feel their hard outlines against my side and breast. “If you're really a psychopath, then... why didn't you kill me when you found me?”

“I am a sadist,” he says, “not a lunatic. Killing those who have declared themselves as allies is the height of idiocy. And given your gear, I believe that you may yet be an asset to our group.”

“So, you're saving me in hopes that I'll stay?”

“Yes.”

“That's so selfish.”

He shrugs. “I did not claim otherwise.”

“Why have allies anyway, then?”

He glances at me. “Why the questions? I am uncomfortable with this.”

“I studied psychology in the Vault,” I say. “Never got a chance to interview a real live psychopath.”

He doesn't say anything.

“Come _on,”_ I say, leaning on him. He curses and stumbles, but regains his balance.

“Bitch! What the hell? I could simply drop you here and leave you, how would you like that?”

“Tell me why you want allies.”

He sighs. “Protection? I am smarter and faster than most wasteland enemies, but I cannot constantly guard my back. With people such as yourself and Badger and Roe nearby, I am able to let down my defenses and sleep properly. And then provide people like you with guidance in exchange for the safety I need to set traps and collect prey.”

“Jesus fuck,” I mumble. “That's the coldest thing I've ever heard.”

The Sadist doesn't answer, and I look at him while we walk. It's fascinating to me, that I'd been living with this man for all this time and hadn't known what he looks like. I realize that he's a few inches shorter than I am.

 _How can someone so small be so strong, and so goddamn_ evil? _He's less intimidating like this, but... somehow it's worse that he looks human._

“Can we stop now?” I complain. “My joints hurt.”

“That's the fever talking,” the Sadist says. “It's more important that we get you home and give you water.”

I groan and the Sadist grits his teeth. “Not in my ear, please.”

It suddenly strikes me that my hallucinations had depicted the Sadist as Charon. _Actually... some of their mannerisms aren't that different._

It bothers me. A man as disturbed as the Sadist, similar to Charon? But their comments, some of their habits... while I was still seeing the Sadist as the devil, my subconscious must have been registering his habits and drawing the comparisons. That must have been why I saw him as Charon when he rescued me.

One is human, one is a ghoul. One is a psychopath, one is enslaved. Both of them are tortured and stalwart, stoic and terse.

My heart aches.

_Charon._

We reach the B&B and I hear mutters from upstairs—Badger hisses, “It's the Satanist!”, and Roe giggles.

If the Sadist heard, he doesn't berate them like he usually does. “Get me a bottle of water and the blankets.”

Badger runs downstairs with them, and the Sadist instructs her to lay them out for me, down in the pit where the remains of the human meat are still rotting.

“Blankets?” I protest. “But I'm not...”

 _Cold,_ I finish silently, as shudders of freezing pain wracks my body. My shoulders cramp instantly and I half-fall down into the nest that Badger had made. All at once I'm shivering and twitching, my teeth chattering.

“Fever has to be over one hundred and four degrees,” the Sadist says. “She will not survive if we don't take care of her.”

“Shit,” Badger mutters. “You gonna fix her?”

“I will try,” the Sadist promises. “Provided I believe there is still a chance.”

Roe peeks into the pit at us. “Sorry, kid. He means it, too. If you're a lost cause, he'll just shoot you in the face. Can I eat your liver then?”

I wrap my arms around my stomach, shaking. _This is worse than being shot._ At least you don't feel the bullets right away, 'cause of being in shock. There's nothing to shield me from my aching joints and pounding head.

“Go ahead,” I mumble. “Whatever floats your boat.”

Weirdo. Is he actually serious? I'm not even dead and he's already trying to claim my body parts?

“Arms look good to me, personally,” Badger says, whacking him on the top of his head, “but let's not get carried away. The Sadist'll keep her alive.”

“Until he gets bored,” Roe says, cheerfully. “Then all bets are off.”

The couple disappears upstairs, leaving me alone with that... _monster._

He's turned back into the devil.

“All bets are off?” I repeat, shaking. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The devil looks at me, and the horned skull on top of his head tips forward when he shrugs. “I have had patients before.”

“Uh... how long are you going to give me before you get... bored?”

“Least a week,” he says. “Drink this.”

He hands me a goblet filled with blood. I can smell the stench of it before it even reaches me. Rotting meat and dead flies float at the top.

My eyes tear up. “Wh... what the hell is this?”

He's trying to kill me. Or turn me into a demon. Or something.

Maybe something worse.

“It's purified water, you idiot. Are you that humbled by my ministrations?”

“I... I can't...” I shudder, seeing a fly's leg twitch in the thick broth.

His voice lowers. “Are you tripping?”

 _Tripping?_ What is he talking about? My eyes water more as he grows in height—six feet, seven feet tall, and blood trickles out of the skull's eyeholes and pours out on the floor.

“I... stay away from me!” I scream, as he takes a step forward.

“Relax,” he rumbles, his voice reverberating in the stone labyrinth surrounding us, and deepens with every word. The devil towers above me, the size of a Super Mutant—larger. “Fever and a psychotic break at once? You will not like me for this, but I did say that I would keep you alive.”

“No!” I shriek, and a massive clawed hand smashes my wrist into the earth. I scream more loudly, and when my mouth opens, the devil turns the goblet. At this point it's the size of a cauldron, and lukewarm, fetid blood spills into my mouth—flies and mealworms, some still barely wriggling, pour down my throat as I gag and suffocate.

_No—god please—no...!_

The devil is relentless, and my body betrays me in terror, sobbing and hacking on the blood and insects, but I am unable to stop gasping for breath and I find myself drowning in blood and rotting meat... the devil tips the cauldron on its side, and I close my eyes in defeat.

I shouldn't have killed myself, out there in the wasteland, all alone. I should have known that this was what hell was going to be like.

 

 

I'm still shivering when I wake up. My fingers reach out in desperation, my heart pounding, and a calloused hand clasps my own.

I suck in a deep breath, relieved, and pull myself closer. I'm completely covered in blankets, soaked in sweat, but I still feel strangely cold. The blankets form a womb around me, dark and safe. My hand is outside the nest, and given the feel of the palm, the one holding my hand is the Sadist. My head is resting in his lap again.

“...the hell did you allow her to leave? Did you have any idea what she was about to do?”

At the harsh voice, both of my hands clench. _Charon?_

The Sadist leans in close. “Your ghoul is here,” he murmurs. “Stay quiet. You wanted to keep away from him, correct?”

Yes. I did. It hurts, but I can't see him. I want it to be Charon holding my hand, Charon to be embracing me and keeping me safe, but... but it has to be the Sadist. I can deal with putting these raiders at risk because of my insanity, but not my ghoul. Not Charon.

So, even though I shiver all the harder, my teeth pressed into my lip, and tears trickling down my face and onto the Sadist's boots, I don't say a word.

“Nawh,” Badger says. “She just up and left. What'd she say?”

Charon's voice is strained. “ _Kill_ herself, you dumbass! I must find her, soon, or... which way did she go? _Tell me!”_

“Dunno,” Roe says. “But you already looked around the whole area, right? If she's dead, it's not around here.”

“Or a Deathclaw could'a gotten her,” Badger says cheerfully, fully aware that I'm nestled about ten yards away from them. “Wouldn't have left anything behind.”

“Might have forgotten what she was about to do, too,” Roe says, taking pity on poor Charon. “She might not be dead. She's been tripping off her ass on Psycho the entire time. She's almost as bad as me.”

“So it _was_ Psycho,” Charon mumbles. “I should have known.”

“Mm,” Badger says. “Why do ya wanna find her so badly, anyway?”

“She is my employer. And I am bound to serve her.”

“Sounds like she didn't wanna be found. Anyway, if she's still alive, and you get to her, what are you gonna do? She wasn't with us for long, yeah, but she still told me about your kinky little relationship. You like her, right? You care about her?”

A short pause. “...yes.”

“She's not gonna be the same girl,” Badger says. “Take it from one who'd know. The first few days she'd burst into tears while walking because she thought that she was moving through broken glass and burning tar—didn't realize she was wearing shoes and armor. She talks to Brahmin, and she sees demons. Face the truth, shuffler. Your lady is _gone.”_

“I don't care,” Charon says. “I must find her.”

“Whatcha gonna do with her, then? Lock her up in a makeshift asylum? You do realize that she'll think you're some kinda monster, right? She'll hate you, try to kill you.”

“I...” Charon trails off. Doesn't sound like he thought that part through. I can almost hear his gears turning from in the pit, and then he says, resolute, “I will find a cure.”

Badger guffaws. “A cure? A cure for insanity? Roe, didja hear that?”

The pair of them cackle. Roe snickers, “Hey, when you find one, you hafta bring it back to us, alright?”

“Yeah, gotta cure this asshole,” Badger says. “He's so crazy, he probably thinks one exists.”

“Hah!” Roe shouts. “Of course there is no cure! There is only deeper and deeper insanity! And, my love, it awaits us in a hidden stockpile of Jet and Psycho!”

“Now you're talking. Where d'you wanna go to find it?”

The pair of them chatter away happily, Charon entirely forgotten. I hear him growl at their antics, and there's a scrape of his boots on the dirt above us.

I flinch. _He's... coming closer?_

“What's wrong with him?” Charon rumbles.

The Sadist twists around to look back at Charon, who is apparently standing at the edge of the pit. “Ah. Our new guy? She's—ah, _he's_ dealing with an illness. Bad fever. Infection. Had a tangle with a madman out in the wastes. He's getting adequate water, but we haven't got much food. There's a good chance he won't make it.”

I shudder as the Sadist runs a hand over my shoulders. Even through the blankets, it's not a pleasant feeling. Especially since I know that he's going to kill me if my condition worsens. And then I'm just going to be a goddamn Helena hor d'oeuvre.

Charon pauses, and then there's the sound of him opening his pack. “My mistress... I was saving this for when I found her, but given the circumstances, I think—or at least I hope—that she would want you to have this.”

There's the sound of a crinkly wrapper and the Sadist catches it.

“Thank you,” he says. “I'm sure he'll appreciate the gesture.”

My weak fingers slip out of the nest and I take the food—I knew as soon as I heard the wrapper. _Fancy Lad Snack Cakes._

“Hey,” Roe says, as Charon leaves. “Good luck finding your lady.”

I pull open the wrapping and take a bite of the cake. Warm and spongey, the icing is partially melted, and it's a blissful rush in my mouth.

My heart is aching, but I continue to eat until there's nothing left. And then when Charon is long-gone, far away in the distant wastes, I press the wrapper against my chest, and give myself over to my tears.

 


	4. Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, almost forgot that it was Thursday.

And so I fight.

I think it enrages the Sadist, how hard I fight back from death's door. His nursing is careless, unhurried, and I know that he doesn't particularly care whether I live or die—he wins either way. If I live he'll have yet another pawn, and if I die, he'll have his own sick enjoyment out of killing me slowly. The farther I come back from death's door, the more irritable he becomes. During the last few days, he avoids me completely, and it's up to Badger to bring me cheese and milk.

And so I fight, and I win.

“Ow- _wow!_ It's _Three Dog_ here, with a little bit of news for all you wastelanders!”

I groan as the DJ comes back on the air. We'd been listening to a nice bit of music on the portable radio Badger had pulled off of a trader's corpse, and now that goddamn idiot is back with his retarded call sign. Static fades in and out, which I'm grateful for. Gob tries to listen to Galaxy News Radio at the bar, and I get infuriated with him. It's shit, and I also don't like that this dumbass Three Dog talks about me. Like, _bitch, I don't know you!_ Don't talk about me. Jesus. I can't believe that even raiders listen to this guy.

At least the static is enough to drown him out sometimes.

“Turns out that the Saint has up and left. A lot of folks are high and dry without their savior—small towns have been depending on her to keep out raiders and Muties for months now. Without her, it sounds like things are goin' back to the way they were before. A lot of fightin', and a lot of killin'. Rumor is, she's been shot out in the wasteland—but other people are sayin' that she's dying from some kind of brain cancer.”

_Brain cancer? Yeah, I guess you could call it that._

“Anyway, she's got a dear, devoted friend tryin' to help her out. Real tall fella, he stopped in the other day to try to get in good with the Brotherhood—not the brightest move, seeing as he's gone through a little something they call _ghoulification._ I only showed up as they were forcing him out—he's lucky he didn't get _shot._ But if you've got a heart for our little saint, cut the guy some slack, won't ya? This is _Three Dog,_ from Galaxy News Radio, _out!”_

“Dammit,” I mutter.

“Were they really talking about you?” Roe asks cheerily, stopping his monotone singing. He's been doing that all day for some reason.

“And Charon, yeah. I think so.”

“Can't believe they call you a saint,” Badger smirks. “You did great on that raid. You killed half the caravan guards before they could even shoot at us.”

I grimace. “Yeah...”

“And you even managed to impress the Satanist!” Roe says. “I didn't think anyone could do that.”

I wish that I hadn't. But by that point, I was starving for anything other than dirty water and Brahmin cheese, and with our supplies of the latter running low, I was cold enough to kill innocents.

_God... what have I become?_

My thoughts are interrupted by a gunblast and a hole that appears right by my left hand.

“Shit!” I snarl, scrambling backwards. I pull my M1 Garand off my back and peek out the broken window, my eyes searching the wastes. “What the hell?”

“You're just seeing things,” Roe says. “Calm down.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Badger snaps. “Dumbass! We're getting shot at!”

“Are we?” he says cheerfully, and stays sitting right out in the open. Badger has to pull him down, and he giggles as she presses him against the floor with her palm. “Now, my dear, I don't think we should do this in front of the new blood...”

He unzips his pants anyways and Badger whacks him. “Can't you sit still? _God,_ you're useless. Sadist!”

Our leader is crouched in the pit downstairs, his many-jointed appendages angled around him, like a spider's legs. “I know.”

“Who is it? Regulators? Raiders?”

“Raiders. Looks like that group who was hanging near Megaton.” The devil tilts his head, the skull slipping, and calls, “Five of them.”

“Shit!” Badger growls.

 _We're outnumbered._ And it looks like they have sharpshooters. I still can't find them, even though my eyes are frantically searching for their location.

“Where?”

“They're hiding beneath the bridge,” the devil says.

 _Aha._ With that direction, I can just barely see the barrel of a gun as they hide behind the cement pillars. Same tactics that I used to use, when I myself fought raiders. Except this time, we're going up against fellow criminals.

Good. Then this time I don't have to feel bad for them.

“Woah!” Roe exclaims. “Did you see that bird? Looked like a phoenix or something.”

Badger groans. “Look, if you aren't going to help us, just go down into the pit.”

There's another quick burst of gunfire, and Badger screams as a red flower blooms on Roe's shoulder.

Roe himself looks stunned, and touches the wound. His hand comes away dripping.

 _Shit. Stimpak—_ I reach for my boot, but I don't have any. I'd forgotten that, as a mere raider now, I don't have the resources I did before.

“You killed me,” Roe accuses, stabbing a finger at my face. “You stabbed me in the heart. Why would you do that? Cherish?”

“Roe,” Badger begs, grabbing his shoulders, “Stop it!”

“Cherish, you evil, evil bitch... you _stabbed me._ You stabbed me!”

“Roe, calm down. You're not thinking straight.”

“Get away from me, Aaron!” Roe snarls at her. “Now, _you,_ you _bitch!_ I'm gonna fucking kill you!”

“I didn't do anything!” I shout. “It was them, dammit! The raiders? Have you fucking lost your mind?”

“Yes, he has!” Badger growls. “Anytime he gets into a fight, he loses himself. Problem is, he's pointed our way and not theirs. Roe!”

She slaps him, hard, and drags him down the ramp. “If you can't figure out what's going on, then stay away from us! Dumbass!”

Roe stands, looking around blindly. “Where was... just gonna... huh.”

There's another hail of gunfire and I return it, spraying shards of concrete out from the bridge's pillars. The raider assholes down there fire back and a bullet grazes my ear.

“Shit!” I snarl. “We're sitting ducks here! Who on earth had the bright idea to live in this shitty tin house, anyway?”

“Cherrrriiiiish,” Roe calls in a sing-song voice. He's got his crowbar in hand, standing in front of the house now. “Come here... I'm gonna shove this thing up your pussy. Hm? What do you say? The crowbar or the rifle?”

I shudder.

“Man, I'd _love_ to watch your brains get ripped out the top of your head. If the bullet goes that far. I could jerk myself to that thought for _days.”_

“Stay down,” Badger whispers to me. “Don't let him see you.”

 _Yeah, no kidding._ She doesn't need to tell me twice.

There's a few more gunshots, and Roe gets hit in the side. He stalks forward as if he didn't even feel it. “Cherish... you bitch... know what you did... gonna...”

Another bullet to his leg, and this time Roe screams. “ _Cherish!”_

I peek up, and see Roe running straight for the raiders.

“Now!” Badger hisses. “Cover him!”

“Is this how you guys usually fight?” I ask, emptying the cartridge of my M1. I reach for my ammo belt and reload. “Like, as recklessly as possible?”

“We try not to,” Badger says. “Now shut up and focus on not hitting my boyfriend.”

Roe isn't making it very easy. He's dancing around in front of the raiders, leaping away from bullets and getting a few good whacks in now and then. Both Badger and I manage to take a guy down, and the devil crawls out of the pit.

“Where the fuck is he going?” I ask.

“He doesn't like guns,” Badger says. “He's our exclusively close-range fighter.”

The devil is running, a dark blur in the dead grass. Badger gestures for me to put my gun down, and both he and Roe vanish around the other side of the bridge.

There's a gunshot, and then silence.

Badger stands.

“Is... is that it?” I ask.

“Mm. Probably.”

“That doesn't sound very convincing...”

“Shut the fuck up, let's go.”

We descend from the second floor and start on our way towards the scene of the firefight. I can see a raider's arm thrown over her head, a pistol still clutched in her lifeless hands. Her eyes are open, her mouth parted, blood and foam dripping from her lips. Five yards away are two more corpses.

“Roe was shot like five times, is he gonna be okay?” I ask.

“The Satanist has the stimpaks,” Badger says. “If Roe is still alive, then he's being treated by now.”

Her voice is grim.

“I'm sure he's fine,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Uhm... is that usually what he's like, seriously? He always charges in like that?”

“Roe's what we call a berserker,” Badger says. “You've probably met some already. Raiders that have gone completely over the edge. They just run right at you, don't even think to use long-range weapons. He goes crazy, doesn't feel himself getting wounded.”

“Jesus.”

“You wouldn't have noticed, probably... but Roe's almost never lucid. He's just smart enough, just barely with it enough to fool you into thinking he is. The more we need him, the less dependable he is.”

We're quiet as we climb the hill, reaching the other side of the bridge. I don't know what to say to that. It's clear that Badger loves him, and I _think_ Roe is in love with her. He always says he is, but if he doesn't know what he's doing, is that for sure?

Roe is sitting cross-legged, flipping an emptied stimpak between his fingers. “Fly away, fly feathers, totem bird, featherfluff, singing bird, _songbird...”_

Badger breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Skylark, sparrow, sandgrouse, swiftlet, spoonbill-”

Badger smacks the top of his head and Roe yelps. “Goddamn it, Cherish! Don't drop the birthday cake.”

“Huh. Still out there, huh? Come on, baby, look at me.”

I frown and glance away. It's... sad. I don't like seeing Roe like this.

A few feet away, the devil is tying a man down with strips of leather. It's the last enemy raider; his hands are bound together and tied to his ankles, bending him over backwards and on his knees. Sweat drips down his face, in pain from the uncomfortable position.

“Uh... Sadist? What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

The devil finishes, pulling a strip of leather taut with a grunt. He doesn't answer.

“Mmf! Mmf!” the bound raider pleads, his eyes wide. He's been crippled, the backs of his legs slit open down to the bone.

I feel queasy, and I pull the gag out of his mouth, shoving past the devil.

“Please... please kill me... please...”

The devil chitters angrily and shoves the gag back in. “You took it out too soon. I have yet to remove the tongue.”

The raider's eyes widen and water, and I bite my lip. _Remove the..._ oh god.

The moment that the devil turns his back to me, looking down at his selection of tools and blades, I send a bullet straight through the raider's head.

“Shit!” Badger yelps, not expecting the sudden sound, and Roe screeches, covering his ears.

The devil stands slowly, and my vision warps again.

All of our surroundings have been replaced with sand, and the sky is a deep turquoise blue. Strange lights float all around us, and the sky is darkening even though there's no clouds covering it. The devil is much taller than myself, at least eight feet high, and a few yards away, there's a bellowing Brahmin, laying on its side, its noses bloodied.

Gob is dead at my feet, his eyes missing.

“You're a monster,” I accuse, my heart in my throat.

“Aren't you the one who shot him?” the devil rumbles, towering over me.

“You'd killed him already,” I snap, pointing to my dead ghoul friend. “You tore out his goddamn eyes.”

“Tore out his... hah.” The devil lets out a long sigh, and unclenches his hands. “So that's what's going on. I will forgive you, but if you ever kill my prey again, I will not hesitate to use you as a substitute.”

“I'll kill you first,” I snarl. “You... to _Gob!_ He's never hurt anyone in his goddamn life, you motherfucker! I don't care who you are, bitch, but you're gonna fucking die!”

“He is not real,” the devil says. “Do not try to fight me.”

I glare at him, circling. He watches me, and I get the feeling that he's mocking me, somehow. Like he wants me to attack him, so that he can humiliate me and torture me.

The Brahmin groans and splits down the middle—a swarm of flies emerges from the bulging sides and rises into the air, as thick as smoke. _The fuck?_ The cattle had been rotting from the inside out. No wonder the poor animal had been in pain.

“I don't care if you torture me,” I snarl. “You can't kill me. I won't let you, not until I cut off your dick and watch you choke on it.”

“Disgusting,” the devil murmurs. The flies writhe in the air around us.“You should put that gun down, before someone gets hurt.”

“You already killed Gob, goddammit!” I scream, and rush him. The devil reaches out, almost lazily, and snaps my neck with a single hand.

 _He barely had to touch me,_ I realize bleakly, as the light fades out of my eyes. _I never stood a chance._

 

 

When I wake up, my head is throbbing from a welt on my temple, and Roe is laid out beside me, having been struck similarly. I'm in my long autumn dress, barefoot again, and the devil is picking around at the corpses of the raiders. A yao guai prowls nearby.

“Sadist?” I call, my voice cracking.

The devil looks up. “Awake, I see.”

“There's a mutant nearby...”

“Fuck you,” the yao guai says. “It's me, dammit.”

“Oh,” I say, recognizing Badger's voice. “Sorry. I didn't recognize you.”

“I don't look like a Super Mutant, do I?”

I shake my head. “Yao guai.”

She scoffs.

“Don't worry, you're a cuter one than the rest.”

“Awh, don't make me blush,” she snaps. “Hey, slap that dumbass beside you awake, won't you?”

“Roe...” I sing obediently, and shake him. The other raider wakes up with a groan, his eyes crossing briefly.

“Cherish...?”

My stomach bottoms out. Roe looks around, still laying on the ground, and his eyes are glazed over. Either he's concussed, or he's seeing a hell of a lot of things that aren't there.

“Shit,” the yao guai says. “Sadist, we've got a situation!”

The devil rejoins us, pockets jingling, full of caps and drugs.

“He's stuck in the hallucination,” the animal growls.

“Cherish,” Roe says dreamily, and rubs his thumb over the inside of my wrist.

“Fuck!” I jump back, not having expected that. “Hey, Roe, your girlfriend is over there!”

Badger growls, “Don't bother pointing me out. He probably can't hear a word you're saying.”

“Cherish... don... don't leave me...” Roe moans, pressing his hand to his head. “It hurts. It _hurts.”_

I kneel beside him, feeling sorry for the raider, and he takes my hand. “It's okay, Roe. No one's gonna leave you, okay?”

“I love you.”

“Mm, yeah...” I say, scratching the back of my head. Not really sure what I should say to that.

“I think you're beautiful.”

“Ah, yeah... thanks...”

“You're the prettiest woman alive, Cherish.”

I smile weakly. “Uh, Sadist...? What are we supposed to do with him?”

“Normally we use Jet to balance him out. He's placid for now, but anytime he gets stuck in these delusions, he inevitably turns violent.” The devil inspects Roe, turning his head this way and that, and then says, “However, we're out of Jet. And those raiders had Psycho and stimpaks, some hash... but nothing that'll help get him through the trip.”

“Weed is gonna work, though, right?” I ask.

“Can cause anxiety,” Badger grunts. “You wanna make him anxious when he's already feeling like this?”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“Then we gotta tie him up and find some Jet. Otherwise it'll take him at least a week to work through this.”

“Shit.”

“No kidding.”

The devil sighs. “Alright, let's get moving, then. I can use these caps to buy the Jet. Here's to hoping we run into a caravan that won't open fire at the sight of us.”

He bends over and helps lift Roe, who snuggles against him.

I approach the yao guai, and mutter, “Who's Cherish, anyway?”

“Cherish?” Roe lifts his head and looks around wildly. “I'll _kill_ that bitch. She... she did... at me, that _cunt-”_

“Woah, language!” Badger growls.

Roe tries to swing at the yao guai, and the mutant black bear rears back and hits him, long claws raking over his skin. Roe cries out, stumbling back, bleeding from long lines of severed flesh.

“Jesus!” I gasp. “Badger!”

“He's fine,” the devil says. “Just disoriented. Come on, let's hurry.”

Watching the devil and a yao guai both helping Roe back to the B&B is an odd sight. Like one of Badger's drawings, something that should not exist. Well—I guess it doesn't _really_ exist. But still. Roe has one arm around the devil and the other holding onto the scruff of mutated bear—they drag him under the shelter of the B&B and drop him. Badger's huffing.

“We should chain him,” Badger says. “Before he gets any worse.”

The devil grunts in agreement, and Roe is in shackles before I can even offer to help. He's a pathetic sight, dripping with blood, the claw marks on his arm already necrotizing. I try to remind myself that Badger hadn't actually hurt him, but it's hard to think that when he looks so sick.

The devil touches the skull, shakes his head, and steps back.

“Doing alright, Sadist?” Badger asks. “You didn't get hurt during that fight, did you?”

“No,” he says shortly. “It's just... one of my migraines.”

“Fuck,” Badger growls. “Are you serious? Now, of all times?”

“I'm going to the pit,” he mutters, and walks away.

Badger stares at me. “Hey—you need to do something. You've _gotta_ find Jet for Roe.”

I bite my lip. “Look, Badger, I really want to, but I'm not exactly seeing anything properly. I can't go out there by myself! I'll get lost!”

“Sadist... that fucker won't do shit for Roe. He wouldn't before, and he won't now, especially since he's got a headache. They're always a warning of his own delusions.” Her voice is bitter.

“Oh... yeah.” I'd forgotten that the Sadist had some issues too. But his aren't caused from drugs, they're something else—something that he was born with, if what Roe had told me the other day was true.

“He knows he'll be more or less useless,” Badger says. “Fortunately, he doesn't cause much trouble when he goes into a phase, but I'll have to stay here to take care of them.”

“So Roe goes violent, and the Sadist gets passive,” I mutter. “Great. Alright. I'll try to find some Jet. If I can make it there, I think I might be able to find some.”

I'm thinking of the two guys who sit on the biggest stockpile of Jet in the wasteland: Murphy and Barrett. I could just take the caps that the devil took from the raiders, but I think it might be just as easy to bring a long a few weapons and make a trade. Those two are willing to buy just about anything, provided it's something that they think they can sell to the next batch of people who wander through.

The good news? They ain't too far from here.

The bad news? There's hardly a chance I'll be able to reach them.

I collect the weapons that the raiders had been carrying, and snag the one guy's Brahmin-skin boots. _Looks like an average size._ Good shoes can be hard to come by out here.

I think of checking up on the Sadist before I go, but given his personality, I don't think he'll appreciate the sentiment. So I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and step barefoot through the fires that rage across the wasteland.

 

 


	5. Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena undergoes a bit of a downward spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 cuz I'm a fucking psychopath  
> Hold on tight, because I had some great ideas while at work today. Chapter 5 isn't that great because I had to freaking slog through it to try to get anything done, but 6 and 7 are going to be wonderfully nuts.

I won't lie—I'm nervous as fuck to be going out into the wastes alone. Alone, and hallucinating all sorts of crazy things. Don't know if it's my anxiety or just a particularly powerful effect of psychosis from being by myself, unbridled from reality with nothing to draw me back, but the moment I walk away from the B&B, I see the world changing around me.

The fires burn gold, and the sky turns a deep red. It should be frightening, but it isn't—it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. The flames part before me, and with an exhilarating rush of smoke and sparks, the earth erupts; hundreds, no, _thousands_ of plants sprouting from the ground at once. Despite the new growth, the stems and leaves are blackened, and the leaves are charred and burning even as they unfurl before me.

My breath catches as tiny flames flare all over the rapidly-growing plants in the wasteland, and the flames expand into golden rosettes than dance and glow with an otherworldly light. They are more fire than fire itself, molten petals of bright heat.

They are the same flowers that I saw in West Farragut, the blossom that was so beautiful that it made my chest hurt. Seeing so many at once is too much, and I sink to my knees in ecstasy.

_“Helena.”_

I open my eyes unwillingly, and descending from the sky is an enormous bird. By _enormous,_ I don't mean the size of an elephant. Or even the size of Rivet City, which I'd seen briefly in the distance, while Charon lay dying in the sand. I mean that it's so insanely huge that it blocks out the entire sky, a creature the size of a god.

I cry out, my voice lost in the rush of its wings.

_“You who carry the fate of the wastelands on your shoulders.”_

I want to cover my eyes, but I can't. I'm caught, dumbstruck.

_“I am with thee.”_

Talons extend towards me.

_“I strengthen thee.”_

I am trembling, my eyes tearing up.

_“I bless thee.”_

The talons open up, the very tips inches away from my head, and a crown of fire blossoms drops onto my hair.

_“I crown thee.”_

The bird sweeps its wings, and the entire world is extinguished.

 

 

When I awaken, I am alone. The sky is clear and blue, and the dry grasses of the wasteland rustle in the wind. There's a soft warmth shining on my scalp, though, and I assume that it's the sunlight until I reach up and my hands meet petals.

 _The crown._ Was... was that real? My heart thrills. I was... crowned? And by some kind of fire deity, no less! I can hardly wrap my mind around it.

This entire time, I had always known I was special. As a child, I figured it was because I was worse than everyone else, but it's actually because I'm _better._

_I was destined to be queen._

What other explanation could there be?

I am shaking, as if fevered, and wrap my arms around myself. What was I doing here, anyway? Wasn't I out on some kind of mission?

With a start, I think about Roe. _Roe._ I need to find Murphy and Barrett! I was going to trade weapons for Jet! I can't believe that I'd forgotten—but it's no matter. I shouldn't blame myself for being stunned by my own divine right. As one blessed by the flame deity, I have an even greater duty to save Roe. It's not just that I'm helping a friend now, but one of my own, a person that I was called to rule.

And I won't let anyone suffer on my first day as Queen.

 

 

I stride into Northwest Seneca Station, brushing my hair with my fingers, straightening my crown. My bare feet cross broken glass on the floor, but I do not feel the pain, even though I can see the blood dripping every time I take a step. My robes of office, woven from leaves, boldly red and yellow and orange and all colors in between, rustle against my skin. I can see Barrett and Murphy through the doorway, talking quietly, and I take another moment to collect myself.

I must be as impressive as possible. I rule this wasteland, and I cannot look weak.

“Murphy,” I call, stepping through the doorway. “I am here to trade for Jet.”

His eyes open a little wider, seeing me in all of my majesty, and he says, cautiously, “Helena. Uh. Good to see you again.”

“Of course. I am glad to see you in good health.”

Barrett makes a small noise, and Murphy casts him a warning glance. “Yes... so, the Jet? What do you have for me?”

“No Sugar Bombs, unfortunately,” I say, “but I collected these weapons off of some traitors. I would like all the Jet you have.”

Barrett sneers, “What? You ugly motherfucker, you think you can just demand-”

He is on the floor before he can say another word, reeling. I had flitted up to him and skinned most of the flesh off of his cheek with my paring knife. I inspect it apathetically, watching ghoul blood slide down my blade.

“The fuck-”

“You must take care,” I say calmly, as Barrett stands, roaring, “to keep your men in check. It is not befitting of a leader.”

“Stand down,” Murphy orders. There is a very tense pause. Barrett does not move, and I smile. “Fuck. Alright. Here's all the Jet I have.”

He hands me five inhalers, and I turn them over thoughtfully. It is strange that such a small thing, such a bizarre drug, could be a cure for Roe's affliction.

“Thank you,” I say, and drop the peel of skin into Murphy's hand as payment. He flinches and tosses it aside, and it lands on the floor with a wet splat. “It is greatly needed. My servant has the worst cold, and his head is terribly stuffy. This will work wonders.”

Barrett growls, “Smoothskin, you know that-”

“Quiet,” Murphy snaps. He sighs and looks at me. “I've been hearing things on the radio about you, Helena. Rumors. That you've disappeared, or that you're sick.”

I shake my head. “I was away, but not for long. My spiritual journey has only begun, and I have a great deal of work.”

“Work,” he repeats, staring at me.

My fingers reach up to touch the crown of flames, reverently. “As Queen, I am also the high priestess of the lord of flame. HE has granted me the power to save the people and bring them under one rule, and I will not fail him.”

Murphy raises both hands, rasping, “Well, don't let me stop you.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Before I go...”

“Yes?” He looks a bit sick.

“A blessing.”

I lean forward, needing to bend down a little because he is a few inches shorter than I am, and kiss his forehead. “May the flames purge the world.”

“Amen,” he mumbles, stepping back.

I give him a last smile and take my leave, satisfied with our interactions. As I step out into the station, listening to radroaches scuffling around in the rubble, I hear Murphy say, a little shakily, _“...shit.”_

Aha. So he is impressed by me. I am not surprised. I shake out my hair, adjust my crown, and set off towards the south.

I have a man to save.

 

 

I am about halfway back when I see a man in the wastelands, sitting on a rock, shaking back and forth. I might have avoided him a few days ago, but now that I have been crowned, it is my duty to listen to his problems and try to help in any way that I may.

“Hello,” I say, and his head snaps up. His eyes are bloodshot, and his lips are badly chapped. He keeps rocking back and forth, drilling me with a hard stare. He is large and fearsome, a very tall man with a long beard, wired with gray. “I am here to help you.”

His eyes search me, and then he drops to his knees. “You are an angel!”

I pause. “You see the spark of the deity?” I ask, surprised.

“Your halo,” he says, pointing.

I smile. “My child,” I say, “it is a crown. But you are not far off from the truth. I have been chosen by the flame deity to rule the wasteland. And I'd like to help you. Do you need anything?”

“Jet,” he says hungrily, his eyes burning into me, and slowly, I take an inhaler from my bag and place it against his lips. He closes his eyes, and I release the gases within. He takes a long, deep breath, and another, his arms hanging limp by his sides. When he opens them again, his eyes are flaming, and I can feel the heat on my skin.

I gasp. “You... you have been chosen by the lord as well!”

“Yes,” he says.

“You are to be my servant. We will fight together, and take the wastelands. And then we will burn the world until there is nothing but ash.”

“The fire is so beautiful,” he says, reaching out for something I cannot see, and I smile. He is such a devoted and holy person. “More fire. More Jet.”

He looks at me. “You have more Jet?”

“Yes,” I say, “but the deity has other uses for what is left.”

He seems enraged by this, and a rusty knife appears in one hand. He stomps forward, leering, his breath foul and teeth yellowed, but I sweep past without another glance.

“You will be rewarded,” I say, not looking back, “in due time. Come, follow me, and I can give you Jet everlasting.”

The man pauses, and then I hear his footsteps, quiet, behind me.

“What is your name?”

“Hugo.”

“That is a good name. You will be my knight, my warlord. You will light the fires, and burn the bodies of the heathens.”

“My queen,” he says, a dark smile on his face, mostly from the gaps in his teeth, “if you've got as much Jet as you say, it would be an honor.”

 

 

I stride back into the B&B, Hugo at my heels, and Jet ready in my right hand. There is a devil in the pit, but as I look at him, he suddenly shifts to a man with light brown skin, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I frown. What was his name again?

“Who the hell is this?” he asks, glaring up at us.

“Hugo,” I introduce my knight, “meet...”

And then I frown.

“What's going on?” he demands, and stands up. “Dammit, I lose focus for a few hours and you pull shit like this? You can't just bring people into the camp like-”

He stops speaking when he sees Hugo's rusty knife.

“Aren't you overstepping your bounds?” I ask, coldly. “I am the Queen of the wastelands, the high priestess of the flame lord. Who are _you_ to be telling me what I can and cannot do?”

There is a long, tense silence.

He smiles. “You're asking me? Don't you remember? I... _I_ am the Bishop, and, uhm, you appointed me yourself, your majesty. And it is my duty to... to keep the flame lit when you are away, and protect the people.”

Everything clicks into place as he speaks, and I nod gratefully. Why hadn't I noticed his white robes? Silly of me. “The Bishop. Bishop, please meet Hugo, Knight General. He has been called by our god, and will serve with us. Now, I brought the Jet. Where's Roe?”

“Right where we left him,” the Bishop says, pointing. “He's still... unwell.”

Roe is gasping and pulling at his chains, and I feel very sorry for him. His sickness has given him the worst fever, and I fear that perhaps someone else might catch his cold. Or is it flu? He doesn't seem to be doing very well.

“Cherish,” he moans, and I place the inhaler in his mouth. His eyes drift closed as he breathes in, and eventually his thrashing settles. The Bishop releases him from the shackles.

“Very good, your majesty,” he says, smiling. “It was brave of you to find Jet for him.”

“It was my duty,” I say.

“I... Helena...” Roe says, opening his eyes at last. “Look at the birds. Do you see them?”

The Bishop coughs and kicks Roe in the side, lightly. “That's _Queen_ Helena, Roe. She's our Queen. Remember? We serve the flame god.”

Roe blinks, confused, and then nods. “Oh. Oh yeah.”

“Don't worry,” the Bishop soothes. “You were very out of it earlier. But you're back with us, correct? You are prepared to serve our Queen?”

Roe brightens and nods. “Yes! I am the best at serving lovely maidens. Even better if the lovely maidens are royalty! So... what do I do?”

“You stand guard,” the Bishop reminds him patiently, “and wait for my orders. You'll report to me, of course. You mustn't bother the Queen with things of minor importance. She is so busy with worship.”

Roe nods again, slowly, and Badger walks in from the southern entrance. I smile at my warrior, but she is preoccupied.

“What the fuck?” Badger growls. “What bullshit are you telling him? I go take a piss and this is what I come back to?”

“Woah, woah!” Roe says quickly, standing up. “Don't be like that, baby. You're in front of the Queen. Have some respect, okay?”

Badger shoots a glare at my Bishop, who only smiles innocently. “You remember, Badger,” he says. “We are all Queen Helena's servants, and worshipers of the fire god.”

"Oh, lovely. So you're the one instigating all this shit? What the fuck are you up to?"

"Manners," the Bishop says, still grinning. "And, I am only bringing Roe back to, hm,  _reality._ This is the world we live in now. It would be best for you to get used to it."

She looks at me, and at my crown, and frowns. “I... ugh. Fine. You guys wanna indulge in this fuckin' idiocy, I guess I don't have a choice.”

Hugo steps forward, glaring, and that is the only warning Badger receives before he puts his blade to her throat. “Don't. Disrespect. The queen.”

Badger lifts her hands, her eyes widening. “Fuck! Okay! Who's this shithead?”

“Your new companion,” the Bishop says. “Hugo, Knight General... and I am the Bishop now. Please don't refer to me as anything else. It may become... confusing... to some people. And Hugo, back off. Badger has always been a little hotheaded. Please don't allow it to bother you.”

Hugo obeys, but he glances in my direction beforehand. I am pleased that he shows deference to me, but I am a little miffed that he is so quick to attack one of my own. Badger is an ally, and she's one of my friends. I don't want her to be hurt, especially not by Hugo. That knife of his hasn't been cleaned in years.

Badger sighs and nods. “Fuck.”

The Bishop only smiles, his fingers idly rubbing together, and looks to me. “Now, my queen. Do you have orders?”

I nod. “Yes, thank you. I thought I should share my mission with you all, so listen well.”

I survey my people for a moment, feeling pride in the back of my throat. Swift Roe, tough and wiry; fierce Badger, bold and brave; Knight Hugo, my protector and general; the Bishop of the Flame Lord, his intelligent eyes focused on me even now.

“As you know, I have been chosen by the deity to rule. You four have been good to me, and I am honored by your service. But it is time that we continue on.” I take a deep breath. “We must expand. I have delayed for too long. Our mission is a holy one, and we must see it to its end.”

“We are yours to command, my queen,” the Bishop says, bowing his head. I see the hint of a smile curling around his mouth.

“Knight General Hugo,” I say, “Go seek out the remainder of the Redtooth kingdom. Bring their men here, and make them pledge to me. I will accept them as my own, and forgive them for their trespasses.”

“And if they refuse?” my knight asks slowly.

“Slaughter them.”

He nods and steps back, turning his rusty skinning knife over in his hands. I am not sure what he thinks of this—after all, the remainder of the Redtooth folk are naught but children, some years younger than myself. But he says nothing, and neither does Roe or Badger, although the latter is eyeing me strangely.

And the Bishop only smiles.

 

 

Hugo returns in a matter of hours, taking a bit longer than I had expected. He has a youth with him, a boy that is uncomfortably familiar to me, although I can't place where I might have seen him before. He has brown eyes, and dark brown hair, almost black, slicked back.

“The kid's name is Lucky,” Hugo says by way of introduction, and then mutters, “Bow to the queen, dumbass.”

Lucky drops to his knees, sweating nervously. I deign to approach him, and extend my right hand. Looking sideways to Hugo for direction, he drops a kiss on my knuckles and sits back, face still turned to the ground.

“It is good to meet you,” I say, and the autumn leaves stir around me. “Swear yourself to me, Lucky, and you will be my servant and my child.”

“I... I swear,” Lucky says, biting his lip.

“Upon your life?”

“I swear it upon my life,” he says, “and upon my ma's life, too.”

My finger finds the point of his chin and I draw his gaze to mine. “Rise.”

Lucky is gangly and tall, with too-big feet and hands. The youngest of us all by far.

“I am Queen Helena,” I say, “and you are my servant. As you have so sworn upon your life, I swear upon my own that I will guide you and protect you.”

The boy glances back at Hugo again, and then says, “Ma'am? Uhm, there's another one of us in the gang left, but he, he didn't want to join up. I asked Hugo after I agreed to join, if we could give him another chance, but... he seems really adamant that he's not going to join up. He says that he's just in it for the killing and the Jet. He doesn't wanna do nothing big, you know? He says you're just gonna bring Regulators down on us and we'll all die.”

I snort. “Regulators cannot stand up to my god. I will stop them.”

I'm quite confident in this. I have heard of the Regulators before, and I believe I may have been in the company of one for some time. But although they may have been allies then, they certainly aren't now. They are men and women of the law, and of the land. They will oppose us with everything they have.

The Bishop says, “Surely you do not intend to leave a member of the Redtooth... kingdom... alone? Someone not under our rule, someone who could rise against us?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, by all means, allow me to go to him,” the Bishop says. “As a man of the cloth, I am known to have effective methods of persuasion.”

He is smiling again, eagerly, his eyes glinting, and I feel nothing but fond trust for him. _What a glorious, devoted man._

“Please,” I agree. “Go to him. Pray with him. Convince him.”

The Bishop studies me. “And if I fail... what would you have me do?"

“What I had asked for all along. If he will not submit, then kill him.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw merry Christmas Eve!


	6. Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Madness and Other Deadly Sins: A Very Merry Christmas Special"  
> (not really, but we can pretend, right?)

The Bishop returns from the Redtooth Kingdom with blood spattered all over his white robes. He still cuts a regal figure as he approaches the palace, with the gold trim of his clothing reflecting the light, glowing like embers. I am a bit anxious upon seeing him, worried by the fact that he was unable to bring Lucky's friend, but at least he's safe. And he seems quite satisfied.

“Bishop,” I say. “How did it go? I take it you were unable to convince him?”

“That is correct,” my Bishop says. “He proved most... unreasonable. So I made a quick end of him, as you asked.”

“Regrettable,” I say with a frown.

The Bishop shrugs. “Yes; but there was no way around it. We can't let heathens live in our holy lands. If they're not with us, then they're against us.”

I nod. “One rule. One throne. One god.”

“One queen,” he says, flashing me a smile.

“Were you able to scavenge anything from their territory?”

“Some weapons. Some alcohol.”

“Alcohol?” My interest is piqued by this, and I am not quite sure why.

“Beer,” the Bishop says, and I deflate. _Damn._ It is not fitting for a queen to drink anything but the finest of wine, but for some reason I am wishing for something harder. And beer surely isn't what I want.

“Please give Lucky and Hugo their share,” I say. “And if there is enough, then Badger and Roe.”

He raises an eyebrow. “None for myself or for you, your majesty?”

“I thought that the clergy did not drink?”

“Ah... yes. Of course,” he says, looking away.

“I myself should keep a clear head,” I say, and he lets out a quiet chuckle at my words. “But you have done well, Bishop. Badger caught a mole rat, and she and Roe are gutting it right now. Please, come share a meal with us. You deserve it.”

“That's alright,” he says. “I already ate.”

 

 

_“Winter 1042. The palace construction goes well; the north tower is nearly complete. Our numbers have swelled enough for us to have permanent guards on the ramparts, as well as a rota of knights to seek out prey. Squire Lucky works hard beneath General Hugo to finish the palace. The outer walls are already raised, and after my tower is built, the only things left to do will be to collect furnishings, and launch my full campaign against the world._

_“The lands surrounding are already filled with fires. I see the Bishop from my tower, sometimes, walking through the flames and praying. Benedictions fall from his lips even as he crushes brittle bones beneath his feet. He has proven to be most useful, and I believe that it is only because of his devotion to our god that we have come so far. Although I have not raised a full army, the world is aflame as far as the eye can see. There is nothing but ashes and death, and it is a beautiful sight.”_

I pause over my calfskin journal to think. Yes, in the past few months we have come far indeed. I rule a kingdom now, and already men have come of their own accord to pledge themselves at my feet. My dress of autumn leaves is gone now, replaced by the finest of silks, although my crown stays upon my head. And every night we feast on the most luxurious of meals—spiced pears, veal, and fine wine.

“Whatcha working on?” My thoughts are interrupted by Roe, who hops up onto the table in front of me to look at my writing.

“Stop it,” Badger grumbles from the other side of the room. “Bishop hates it when you sit on the table.”

I put down my quill. “Well, the Bishop isn't here, is he? You're fine, Roe, sit wherever you please.”

“Even upside down?” He flips himself onto the ceiling and looks down at me, perched cross-legged on the beams.

“Roe, that's extremely rude,” I admonish him. “Besides, you know how hard it is for you to get down from there. You'll be walking on the ceiling for weeks.”

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn't move. I roll my eyes as the ceiling warps higher and farther away, until there's twice the distance between us. He is so far above us, perfectly relaxed upon the beams, no more the size of a spider from this distance. I can hear his whistling, as if from a vast distance, tinny and cutting out now and then.

Well, at least Badger is more reasonable.

“Any news?” I ask.

“Heathen movement to the south,” she says, shrugging. “Nothing much from the towns. Bishop's doing a good job of keeping everyone motivated; some of the guys are getting restless.”

“Restless?”

“Our Jet supplies are getting low,” Badger says, “and then some of the rest of us have our own personal vices—weed, Psycho, Mentats. You know. Anyway, we're out of just about everything.”

I frown. This is... troubling, to say the least. Without our medicines to stave off the illnesses of the wastelands... I push the thought from my mind. “When was our last trip to Barrett and Murphy?”

“Last week.”

“Last...! Are you serious? What happened to our supplies?”

“Well, with our numbers being what they are, we go through 'em a hell of a lot faster,” Badger says. “If you want, I can go head out to get the next batch of Jet from Murphy.”

“Please do,” I say, unnerved. I pace. “Does the Bishop know about this?”

“Yes, he does,” Badger says. “He hasn't said anything to me about it, but knowing him, he's got something planned.”

 _Hmm..._ Yes, she's probably right. The Bishop is my most trusted ally. There is no way that he has not thought of anything. He cares for our people enough that he must have some back-up plan. If our men were to fall ill, right before our first Crusade... who knows how many we would lose to influenza and plague?

There's a dull _thud_ as Roe falls from the ceiling and lands spread-eagled on the table. His return to us is punctuated by the buzz of the radio beside him, having been smacked by his palm as he fell. He's lucky that he didn't break it.

Swing music fills the air, and Badger smiles, not looking at either of us. I pause with my mouth open, having been about to rebuke Roe for the noise, but I haven't seen this sort of soft smile on her face in a long time.

“Roe,” she says. “Remember how we used to dance to this song?”

“Ah, my love,” he says, with a grin, “Used to?”

His hand is extended.

“Get off the table first,” she scoffs, and he complies with her demand, still grinning. She rolls her eyes. “Fuckin' idiot.”

Despite Badger's words, her tone is affectionate, and she giggles when he pulls her towards himself. He leads her in a quick-stepped dance, interspersed with Badger's twirls.

“Twirl me,” Roe says.

Badger laughs. “What? Fuck you. No.”

“Twirl me!”

“Oh _god.”_ She obeys him and Roe grins at her when they are face-to-face again.

“Was that so difficult?”

“No,” she says, “but it looked pretty fuckin' stupid.”

I smile as I watch them, thoughtful. “Do any of the other men and women have relationships?” I ask, curiously. “I realize we don't have as many women as we have men, but...”

Badger looks to me, her hands still covered by Roe's, and thinks for a moment. “Gracie's with Mortar, Ephrata is fucking Alan, and that one flat-chested bitch is screwing Lucky, right? I think that's everyone. Like you said, there's not many women. I think you're the only one not doing anyone.”

“Maybe we should hold a ball,” I muse. “Seeing the two of you got me thinking. If spirits are low due to the lack of medication, then maybe we should rouse ourselves in other ways. Lift the alcoholic restrictions for a night, and clear the chairs out of the hall. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” Roe says with a shrug. “Can we do it when we get our next batch of Jet though? Then we'll really have something to celebrate.”

I am about to agree, when the radio's music fades out to a momentary silence. “Hey kids, it's your favorite radio host here, Three Dog, servin' up a side of fresh news. Unfortunately, none of it is too great—the raider camp near Bigtown has undergone rapid fortification, making it the biggest camp besides Evergreen Mills. There haven't been any attacks on Bigtown itself yet, but I wouldn't hold my breath. The Regulators are already stationed and waiting.”

A pause. I am trying to remember who the Regulators are when the announcer adds, “And if you're wondering about where the Lone Wanderer is with all this going on, I've gotten confirmation from multiple sources that she is, in fact, very ill. While I can't give the details, I _can_ give you a little bit of hope: the Church of Atom has rallied behind that stalwart ghoul companion of hers. And there's a rumor that came by today that they might have found a cure.”

I find myself standing, though I do not know why.

“This is Three Dog, out! _Aoooooo!”_

Badger looks shaken.

“A cure?” I ask, breaking the short silence between the three of us. I am baffled by the odd look on Badger's face. She is somber, her carefree mood gone. “If this person is sick, why would they not simply medicate with Jet?”

“Jet doesn't fix everything,” Badger mutters.

What?

_What?!_

My pistol is drawn and I've got her in my sights before she can take a single startled breath. Rage boils in my stomach; I have a bitter taste in my mouth, as if I had been gargling bile. It is the taste of fury. “Jet is the holy cure. How dare you say such a thing! Blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy, Cherish!” Roe shrieks, looking distressed.

“Woah, woah! Jesus! Calm the fuck down!” Badger's hands are raised, her eyes wide.

I am slow to back down. I don't want to shoot Badger, but I am furious with her for saying such a thing about Jet. It is the medicine that keeps the plague away, the balm that we use to soothe Roe's fevers. It is the very same thing that the Bishop administers to me when I am overcome by my religious duties, and allows me to sink into a deep trance, into which I might see the fiery god once more.

In fact, I could do with some Jet right now. It would probably do a great deal to calm me.

I holster my weapon and my silk skirts move to cover the weapon once more. I take a breath, and force myself to be soothed into relaxing my tension. _It's alright. Badger has always been overly blunt and irreverent. I can't shoot her over something like this._

“The Bishop would flay you for saying something like that,” I admonish. “Don't say anything like that again.”

“Noted,” Badger mutters. “Jesus.”

“So... who is this Lone Wanderer that was mentioned?” I ask.

“No one important,” Badger says. “Don't worry about it. You've got more important things to focus on.”

“Like Jet,” Roe says helpfully.

I nod. “Thank you, Roe. Could the two of you manage retrieving the Jet from him, please?”

Roe grins and salutes. “Yes ma'am!”

“Come on, you big lunkhead,” Badger sighs, tugging on his arm, and then mutters, “Might as well leave while our skulls are still intact.”

 

 

The issue of the Jet shortage is definitely a tricky one. If I understand it correctly, it's simply that Murphy's laboratories can't stand up to the demand that we have for his product. After all, before this, the only customers he catered to were ghouls and the occasional traveler. With all of my men, though, he is in a dire shortage. But... if such a lab could be run by two men, why couldn't we fashion something similar for ourselves here, within my own palace?

It would be best to get the Bishop's opinion on the matter.

For whatever reason, he's taken up permanent residence in the pit, where we still keep our larders and medicine. It's been dug out and expanded, of course, but it is still dark and musty, especially now that we have floorboards covering it over now.

The main section of it is the Bishop's quarters, comprised of a large receiving area and a much smaller bedroom. It is to the receiving area that the stairs lead into, which I am grateful for, because it gives me an excuse to check on what he's doing when I retrieve Jet from the larders. I say this both because his work is significant and disturbing—something that I must keep track of.

There is a man on the table, strapped flat on his back. His mouth is gagged and eyes wide. Strips of dripping flesh hang from his arms and chest. The Bishop is hovering over him, his face covered by a medical mask, appearing to be deliberating on where to cut next.

“Bishop,” I greet, and nod at the prisoner. “How goes the conversion?”

My adviser pulls down his mask. “Slow as usual. What can I help you with?”

“Well,” I say, “I was wondering how much space you could spare down here.”

He frowns. “I certainly need enough to keep up with the conversions, don't I? I doubt that the flame god would be pleased if I stop my work.”

“Nothing like that,” I assure him. “Just consolidate space, maybe dig out a new section if need be. I was talking to Badger and Roe and it seems that we rely on Murphy too heavily. Do you think it would be possible to formulate Jet within the palace? And do you know anything about how to go about it?”

The Bishop's eyes gleam. “Ah. I know a little, yes, but just as much as any other, ah... _priest_ would know. Obviously the main ingredient is Brahmin dung, but it's much more difficult to refine after the initial distillation. With our current resources, we might be able to manufacture a simplistic version, but it would not give the high that our men are used to.”

I sigh and cross my arms. “That would figure. Well, we have the Brahmin dung, at least; Roe's beast proves more and more useful. What else would we need? And do you know anything about refining it?”

“Sugar,” the Bishop says. “There are certain chemical reactions that are greatly aided and enhanced by the presence of sugar, although making standard Jet is not without its risks. If you wish, I will begin preparations for a low-level Jet, to help satiate the more... unruly of our religion.”

“Please do,” I say, gratefully. The Bishop is always so brilliant and quick, so eager to help. What would I do without him? I rely on him so much that I don't know how I'd be able to run my kingdom without him.

_I suppose I would do it as I always have—by the grace of my god._

“Bishop,” I say curiously, “what are these strips for?”

I am pointing to the slender, oozing pieces of flayed skin hanging from our prisoner's arms. Long and thin, exposing the fat and musculature beneath. He is certain to get an infection, exposed like this.

“I'm glad you asked,” the Bishop says smoothly. He takes his thin knife and traces a long line across the man's belly, and then uses the width of the blade to peel off the skin. The man thrashes, tears streaming down his face, and then lets out a low moan audible through the gag and falls silent.

“You see,” the Bishop says, ignoring the prisoner, “it is all a single piece in a beautiful healing process. It is not only his mind that is sick, but his body—that is why he denies the fire god. If I cut him to pieces and rearrange what the god has provided him with, I can remake him into something good and holy. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” I say thoughtfully. “It does.”

“Good,” the Bishop replies. He pulls the mask up over his face.

“Although, it seems silly to remake him and then have to use several stimpaks on him just to keep him alive. Surely there's a less invasive way to convert?”

“Stimpaks?” The Bishop laughs. “Have more faith in our god, my dear. It is faith that our friend here is lacking, and faith is what will heal him.”

“He will heal when he accepts our god,” I murmur, studying the man's agony-filled eyes. “Of course.”

I lean forward, brushing against the thin strips of flesh, hanging like little red flags, and kiss his forehead. “May the god bless you.”

 

 

With the Bishop working on the daily tasks of our faith, I take to planning festivities. Once Roe and Badger return with the Jet, I'll announce our plans to manufacture it on our own—that'll be sure to get everyone excited. And a ball is just the thing to get everyone to relax and bond. With our influx of numbers, we really need a better sense of comradery. It pains me, but I don't think that our morning and evening prayers are enough to truly bring us together.

When I step out into the lower level of the palace, I pause to give my warriors time to kneel before continuing amongst them. The high, arched ceiling is draped with blue banners and luxurious tapestries; at the far end of the room is my throne.

I am greatly pleased with the expansion that my men have helped me with. There is so much that they have pulled together in such a short amount of time—marble floors, gold filigree on the walls, the precious stones in the painted ceiling. I could not ask for a grander palace, even if it isn't suited to housing more than about twenty-five people. Given the numbers of people remaining in the wasteland, this is a sizable encampment, so I can't be upset that it isn't a larger place of worship and deference.

I look at my warriors from the seat of the throne. “I would like to announce a special event for us tonight. A reward for your loyalty. I know that it has been a trying time. Establishing ourselves here has not been easy, and we have all lost friends. Samuel, Gloria, and Monroe were all good people, and Monroe particularly was a dear friend, although I did not know him for very long. Tonight... tonight, my friends, we will celebrate them, honor them, and exult in our own victories. We are the strongest kingdom in the wastelands, and soon all of our names shall be seared into the memory of the earth as we bring down cleansing fire.”

My people are silent and watching me, shifting, impatient. But they do not speak. They do not rise from their knees. They have learned that I do not tolerate disobedience in my court. I took Ephrata's tongue for speaking out of turn, and Mortar lost his left hand for threatening treason.

Now, no one dares to challenge me except for a select, untouchable few: Badger, Roe, Hugo, and the Bishop.

“Gracie, Ephrata,” I call. “Venture into the wastes and return with something fresh. Mortar, Hugo—kill some wolves or dogs or yao guai and bring me their meat and pelts. Lucky—go into the pit and speak to the Bishop about clearing space for our newest project. The rest of you may go about your normal duties.”

My people nod or growl out acknowledgments and trudge off to do my bidding—Lucky in particular looks petrified about going downstairs. But despite looking around rather desperately, he, too, eventually makes his way down the rickety steps into the dark and musty basement.

Muffled screams make their way up to the hall sometimes, so I cannot fully blame him for being hesitant. But it is a place of wondrous conversion, a place of tribulation and faith. The Bishop does not often turn a heathen into a true worshiper, but upon the single occasion that he did... it was the most amazing thing that I have ever seen. Samuel was one that the Bishop had worked on for a particularly long time, passionately, without food or rest, a project that took three days and three nights. When he was complete, Samuel was a new man. When the Bishop took me down to see his work, I could not help my words: _beautiful, beautiful._ I thought he was an angel at first glance, the same that Hugo had mistaken me to be.

In fact... I would not be surprised if the Bishop truly had changed Samuel into an angel. He works so masterfully, I...

...He had been spread open, much like our current prisoner, although the Bishop had focused mostly on his back. With great, exacting care, he had separated nerve filaments and odd threads of vein and tissue so that they hung from his arms and back like a cape. His eyelids had been stripped away, and I will never forget the gleam of that brilliant blue as he stared into eternal flame. The Bishop had pulled the gag from his mouth, and a thousand epiphanies and mysteries poured forth from Samuel's mouth. He prophesied and raved and told us of visions, of burning cities and atomic flame, of a vast expanse filled with sand and sun, of a world made from ashes and bone. He told me that he had looked upon the face of the fire god.

I believed him.

When Samuel died, two hours later, we hung him from a cross at the top of the wall, just behind the throne. His outstretched arms, nailed so carefully down, allow the threads of flesh and nerve to hang like wings, and every time I look at him I am reminded of his own magical transformation from a heathen to a fire soul.

His wings are so much like the deity's.

His dry eyes stare sightlessly ahead, as if blinded from light, and his mouth hangs slightly agape. Sometimes, when I am alone in the throne room, contemplating my kingdom, I feel that he is just about to speak, and whisper to me of holiness and ecstasy once more.

 

 

Roe and Badger arrive triumphantly with six Jet inhalers, and are greeted with cheers from the warriors. Hugo idles over to them and huffs one before sinking into a stupor; I do not begrudge him the action, because Hugo is the most dependent upon the medicine. However, I am quick to send Badger downstairs with the rest of it, in order to keep it safe from the rest of the men. It will be needed for the next bout of sickness.

I am very pleased with the environment that has been created with the promise of a ball. True to my word, I have cleared out the hall save for my throne—the floor was swept and scrubbed, and it gleams in the torchlight. Gracie and Ephrata returned with some wasteland greens, a few scant herbs here and there that will do nicely to spice up our roast pig and potatoes. A few small tables have been left here and there, pressed up against the walls, with steaming plates of food for sampling.

And then there is the music. The radio is playing on both the console and on my Pip-Boy, so that no matter where I go, there is the cheerful rush of jazz music. The notes swirl around me colorfully, and I chase them through the air. All around me is dancing—Badger and Roe and the other couples all spinning and twirling and leaping and flying. My hands weave shimmering pathways through the air, and I paint the world in a myriad of musical hues, first the brassy oranges of a saxophone and then the pale green of a trumpet. The world is awash with color.

“My queen,” a voice murmurs into my ear. “May I have this dance?”

I grin as I turn, meeting the eyes of the Bishop. “Aha! I was wondering when you would join us. Finished with our blasphemer already?”

He shrugs apologetically. “His heart was not strong enough,” he says. “He died before I could bring him to the final phase.”

“A pity.”

“Mm.”

We stand together, as the men and women dance, heat pulsing around us. I watch the passions unfolding around us—Ephrata's smile with Alan's hands on her waist—Badger's giggle as she feeds Roe a piece of meat—Gracie's head tipping back as Mortar sucks her neck—

The Bishop's hands are in the pockets of his fine white robes, and then he removes them. Extends one towards me. “If I may?”

“Why, Bishop,” I tease, “I didn't know you had _any_ interest in the practices of laypeople.”

But I take his hand anyway.

“And I didn't know that the rest of our men would be so rude as to leave a queen to dance alone,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

I laugh. “They're not being _rude._ They're being respectful.”

“Oh, so am I disrespecting you, then?”

“Of course not. You're a priest, you're my equal. You are more than welcome to dance with me.”

And what an excellent dancer he is. I'm not clumsy, but in such a heady atmosphere it is difficult to be precise. I very nearly step on his toes a few times, but the Bishop only smiles at me. I still find it strange that he's shorter than me, and dancing with him is a tad bit awkward, but something about that smile... those hazel eyes... he reminds me of something lost.

 _How can I lose something I've never had?_ I wonder, but that's just the way I feel. Something within me is calling out, screaming into the night, and something within him is whispering a dark and sinister reply.

I don't realize that I am drawing in closer to him, entranced, until the song ends.

The Bishop lifts my hand, still smiling, and presses warm lips to my fingers. I blush, and a shudder jolts down my spine, though I do not know why. “A lovely number. Your tango is excellent, as I would have expected.”

“Bishop...” I am still and quiet, and he has not let go of my hand. I feel as though I am about to say something particularly stupid, when fortunately the voice on the radio interrupts us.

“ _Aooooo!_ It's _Three Dog!”_

Thank god. To think that I would ever be happy to hear that odious man's voice.

“It's been a few hours, and I figured I'd give you kids an _update._ I know, I know, you guys are all kinds of worried about the Hero of the Wastes. But you can quit that worrying right now, okay? I've got some real confirmation this time, and from a source who spoke to the man himself. The Lone Wanderer's tall, scary ghoul friend has got the cure. Apparently, he hasn't been too vocal on what might be wrong with her or where she's been staying, but he's racing west like a bat outta hell.

“And that's it for tonight, kiddies! I'll be seein' all of _you_ in the morning. And with any luck, maybe a rumor about Miss 101 herself will be here when I speak to you again. Until next time!”

There is an expression on the Bishop's face unlike any others I have ever seen before. He is suddenly very solemn, and remains quiet as the next song starts up. Contemplative, and yet so incredibly enraged that it makes me take a step back.

For a split second, I think that I see shadows writhing around him.

“...Bishop?”

“Ah,” he says, and the expression smooths away. “Yes, my queen?”

“That broadcast,” I say, oblivious to the dancing around us. “You reacted to it. Why?”

He gazes off into the distance, and I can see him formulating a misdirect, some kind of falsehood, and it angers me that he would seek to hide something from me. How _could_ he? My own adviser? But not that, that's not what bothers me most—my own _friend?_

“Tell me!” I insist. “What made you so angry? What could possibly be hidden in that message that you would react like that?”

I did not think it would work. I did not think that he would be so easily convinced, so easily swayed by my distress, but I see the Bishop's walls crumble away. And he sighs, before dragging his torn gaze back to mine. “I thought it would be best not to tell you. Helena...”

“...Yes?”

“ _You_ are the Lone Wanderer. You're the woman that he's talking about.”

My eyes widen. “Me? But why doesn't he call me by my name, or say that I'm the queen? Priestess, even, would work as well.”

“It's a code,” he explains grudgingly, “used by our enemies to give out information. My lady queen... I did not want to worry you, but... perhaps it is time that you are aware of the dangers around you.”

I glance around, and turn off my Pip-Boy radio. Lowering my voice, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“That radio announcer has been speaking of a 'friend',” the Bishop says, and his eyes search mine for any kind of recognition. “A friend with a cure. Do you know anything about this?”

It might seem silly, but I feel as though there's something much deeper to the question—as if something precious hangs in the balance, and my answer might determine its fate. There's an unexpected surge of uneasiness at the question; _what does he know that he isn't telling me?_ I hesitate as the Bishop's hazel eyes drink me in, missing nothing.

“That's some kind of code phrase, isn't it? Do you know what it means?”

He nods, having found his answer, and sighs. “Unfortunately, yes. It means... they are sending a man to kill you.”

 

 

And there it is.

I let the words sink in slowly. It is not what I had expected to hear, but I should not be surprised; with the Regulators amassing in the towns to the east, I knew that my life would be in true danger sometime soon.

“An assassin?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,” he says, and the Bishop rubs his chin and glances away. “A hardened man. An experienced warrior. Believe me when I say that if he comes for you, he will ruin everything that we have been working toward.”

I scoff. “I would not be bested by such a man. The fire deity would never allow me to be overcome.”

A short silence.

“Are you actually worried?”

“I am... concerned for you, my lady. For our mission. If anything were to happen to you-”

“It won't,” I interrupt. “Now, tell me. What all do you know about this assassin? The way you spoke of him, it sounded as if you've met him before.”

“Mm,” he grunts. “Once. He is not the type of man to allow obstacles to stop him. If he knows where you are, then he'll be coming for you at breakneck speed. If you are willing to listen to me, my queen, then I would suggest increasing the guard.”

I hesitate. “Tonight? No. Tonight should be about celebration, and the men are tiring. Hugo and Badger can take first watch, I guess, and Roe and Mortar can take the second. That way we'll have our best fighters looking for potential invaders, and we won't ruin the mood or exhaust anyone.”

The Bishop does not look convinced.

“I'll be _fine,”_ I say, exasperated. “When have I ever given you cause for worry? Be reasonable. If the first word of confirmation has arrived—that this man truly is after my life—then it's not as if he's on our doorstep right now, you know? At the very least, it would take him several hours to reach us, and that's assuming he knows precisely where we are.”

He gives me an uneasy smile but drops the subject. “Very well. ...I must confess, Queen Helena, I was not entirely looking forward to this ball of yours, but I am glad that you are holding it. It does seem to be helping bring us together.”

Mortar is fucking Gracie on one of the side tables.

I eye them, and the Bishop smirks. “Maybe too much.”

“It's the promise of Jet,” I say with a smile. “By the way, how are preparations downstairs going? Lucky has started expansion, right?”

“Not quite,” he says. “I sent him out to find a basin, which he did; the barrel that he brought back should prove quite useful. I had him scrub it out for the rest of the day, and he isn't quite finished with it, although he's made good progress.”

“So... no expansion?” I am disappointed. I had thought that he would be eager to help me, but he's doing it his own way instead.

“No expansion,” he clarifies. “Distillation in the pit would be the worst thing to do. The barrel must be in direct sunlight—it needs to heat for many hours if we're to get real Jet.”

“And sunlight by itself will work?” I am doubtful.

“Mm. We need it hot—almost so hot that it would burn, but not hot enough for there to be any danger of it,” he says. He clears his throat and fixes me with a hard stare. “And _that_ is why I won't help you refine it. High-quality Jet, or Ultrajet, requires an open flame to produce other chemicals that interact with the gas, and I won't risk it. Jet is incredibly flammable.”

“So, you're saying that there's no way to escape Murphy. We _need_ him, whether we like it or not.”

“If we want real Jet? Yes.”

I sigh, and the Bishop laughs at me. “You can't be satisfied with what we have? Our own fortress, and Brahmin, and over two dozen devoted followers to carry out your commands?”

I give him a stare of my own. “No. Not until the world is bathed in flame.”

“Well-said,” he murmurs, and his eyes dip a little below my gaze. “Well-said indeed.”

 

 

By the time I finally make my way up the tower stairs, and arrive at my lavish bedroom, I am exhausted. Most of my men are passed out on the floor. Badger had waved me off sleepily, staving off a yawn; Hugo is on guard duty with her, though the influence of the Jet makes him burst into laughter or stumble now and then. Even now, as I run a hand through my hair and then adjust my crown, I can hear him giggling in the darkness, far below my window.

Fuck, what a night. So much to have happened in one day—plans for Jet, talk of assassins, and men.

By the flame god, the _men._

One in particular is in my thoughts... a white-robed man with caramel skin and those stunning hazel eyes.

He'd looked at me. He'd looked at me, and I saw the way his eyes darkened. And I felt how he had held me during the dance. The way his head bent towards mine.

Could... could something like that work out? I know that as queen, I am meant to be a virgin, and as a priest of the flame god, there's certainly no worldly pleasures permitted for _him._ But, if they _were,_ wouldn't it make sense for us to be with each other?

Damn, I shouldn't think of such things.

Not tonight, not after today, not when these emotions are so fresh in my mind, thrumming through my body.

It is because of my distracted thoughts that I do not notice when a shadow slips in through my window—because of my thoughts that I fail to turn in time to block the striking hand—that I am not quick enough to dodge away when the gleaming tip of a hypodermic needle is pressed into my neck.

The syringe is completely depressed when I finally manage to whirl away, and without another second wasted, I unload my pistol into the intruder's chest.

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Bang._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas


	7. Kingdom

My intruder gasps, “Physical violence inv-” and gets no further. He collapses to his knees.

“Hmph.” I stow my weapon, satisfied that he will no longer be a threat, and admire my handiwork. One bullet missed, clipping his shoulder but not causing anything but surface damage; the other two, however, have met their marks. One through his chest, and the other in his belly.

And then I narrow my eyes, because he carries the rot of the wastelands, and that makes a man a great deal harder to kill.

“Didn't... work,” he groans, his arms around his stomach, and his voice is raw with agony. I am not surprised. Gutshot wounds are like no other pain imaginable. _And that's what he gets for... for... whatever the hell he just did to me._

“What the fuck was that?” I growl. “What _did_ you do to me?”

My neck still stings where he'd injected me.

“Cure,” he growls, and he looks up to my eyes at last. His gaze is piercingly blue, a furious and anguished glare, and that breaks off with a grimace and a moan. “Goddammit... didn't... work...”

I nudge him with my slippered foot. “Do you even know who I am? You're lucky that you didn't succeed in killing me, you hideous vagrant, or the flames would surely have consumed you on the spot. Gods don't take well to blasphemers.”

“Helena... I'm... sorry...”

I snort. “Sorry? A bit too late for that, don't you think?”

The assassin rocks back, and leans heavily against the wall, his blood splattering onto the floor. He grimaces, and I see him reach for a side pocket on his pants.

“Ah,” I say, and step on his hand. He closes his eyes in pain; I do not remove my foot, and grind it in harder instead. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

“Physical violence-”

“And shut up.”

Both of us are silent, save for his labored breathing.

Then: “Helena, if you do not let me go, I may be forced to hurt you.”

“Hah! As if you're capable of anything like that now!”

He barks out a laugh. “I've... faced worse.”

“Oh?” I lean in, smiling, confident. _This man is no threat to me._

The assassin nods to me. “Propose a... deal, with you. Disarm me, and... let me... take something?”

I eye him, not sure whether I should trust him or not. Despite the fact that he's just tried to kill me, for some reason I am loathe to let him die.

I look him over a second time, noticing small details missed upon my first, adrenaline-filled impression: the peeling, dry flesh around his ragged lips, the weariness of his eyes, and lastly, I take in his massive height. He's easily the tallest man I've ever seen.

His eyes flicker, and I step back automatically. Call it what you will, whether cowardice or weakness, but the instant I saw that change in his eyes, my instincts screamed at me to back away.

The Bishop is right about one thing: this man is very, very dangerous.

“Thank you,” the assassin says, and injects stimpak after stimpak into his chest, six of them, and finishes the lot with two pills taken dry. Then, without another word, he removes the pistol from its holster. Unhooks the shotgun from over his shoulder. Pulls a combat knife from his belt, and one small throwing knife from his boot.

Our eyes meet.

“Mm,” I grunt, not sure why my throat is dry. I clear it, and hastily step forward again to move his weapons out of his reach.

Another silence. It seems that if we're to proceed, I'm going to have to make the first move. The assassin, apparently, is content to watch me, breathing softly, a hand still on the gunshot wound on his stomach.

“How did you get in here?” I demand.

His eyes drift to the side, and he says, “I charmed my way through.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that? You, sir, are the most repulsive man I've ever seen.”

He snorts, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Besides,” I add, “Badger would never. She has Roe.”

He says nothing.

A thought occurs to me suddenly. “Wait! You didn't kill her, did you?”

“No,” he says, “though I was tempted.”

I glare at him, not sure if I should believe him or not. Dammit. This guy's got me all mixed up. It doesn't help that I'm tired and overly emotional after my evening with the Bishop.

I decide to take his word for it. For now, at least. If Badger is dead, there's nothing I can do about it now, so going to check on her won't do any good.

“And who sent you?”

“Difficult question. Next.”

I splutter, “You- you can't just dismiss my questions!”

“I just did.”

“Fucking amazing,” I growl, throwing my hands in the air. “I have you bleeding out and at my mercy, and you still have the balls to talk back to me?”

I want to rip out my hair. _God_ this guy is fucking irritating. I don't remember being this irked in... in... oh geez. Maybe this guy takes the cake.

He's looking at the top of my head. “What... what is that?”

“My crown?” I touch it reflexively. “What about it?”

The assassin swallows, and eases himself up a little more, less slumped over. “It's... an interesting headpiece.”

I'm not sure whether or not that's sarcasm. “It was given to me by the lord of fire. It is the symbol of office. I am the holy vessel.” I pause. “And there's another question. Surely you can answer this one: who are _you?”_

“You don't know who I am?”

“How the hell would I know _that?”_

He stares at me, his eyes studying me for a long moment—he says, finally, “I have answered to many names. Most recently, I have been called the Prophet.”

I blink, once, and then my mouth falls open. “A... a _prophet,_ you say?”

“Mm.”

I pace back and forth, agitated, my silk dress swishing around my legs.

A prophet.

What could this mean? A man sent to kill me, someone who I cannot trust by any means, someone so dangerous that he challenges my composure—and he has a title that suggests something mysterious and great. Surely his significance goes far beyond this moment. Surely, that is why I feel so called to him.

But _why?_ Why him, why now?

I look at him, at his eyes that follow my movements so carefully. His expression blank and unreadable. The only suggestion of emotion in his face at all is belied by his jaw, a hard line.

He is still on the floor, his legs out before him, holding up only because of the wall. His wounds are bleeding much less, but there is still a sticky coating all over the floor. A part of me wants to know the taste of it.

I stop right before him, and my hand is resting on the top of his head before I can stop myself. His jaw tightens further, and he glances up for a brief moment.

I am looking at the sparse hair in between my fingers.

_Red._

Of course.

“It seems that fate has more plans for you, Prophet,” I say, and back away. “You will not die tonight.”

His eyes bore into me.

“If I return your weapons,” I ask, “will you still try to kill me?”

“That was never my intention,” the Prophet says, but he does not argue when I offer him the hilt of his dagger.

“Hmm. Then, what were you planning to do? What was in that syringe?”

“Dreams,” he mutters. “And nothing more.”

I cross my arms. Well, if he isn't going to give me a straight answer... ugh. I guess I'll just have to wait and see if I feel weird in a few hours. Based on the Prophet's reaction, he had expected it to take effect immediately, so it's more than likely that it was an inert substance. But still. I don't like to think about what it might have been.

“Prophet,” I ask, “whom do you serve?”

“You.”

His eyes do not leave my face.

I frown. “What, you're... mine, simply because I bested you in combat and spared your life?”

“No. I've always served you.”

His answer is immediate, and his voice too raw for it to be a falsehood. This... this makes no sense. I've only just met him, and moreover, he's an assassin! He's just injected me with god knows what, and now he's swearing himself to me? So why... how...

I shake my head. I can talk to the Bishop about it later. The Bishop has an answer for everything; surely he'll say something to reassure me.

“I am the vessel of the fire god,” I say, deciding to introduce myself. “I am queen of the wastelands. So, if you serve me, then you also serve the deity.”

I glance at him, but he does not reply. I continue, “Our mission is to convert all the world, and burn what is left. In time, we, too, will go up in flames.”

His face tightens.

“You're killing civilians,” he growls.

That makes me stop short. “ _No,”_ I snarl back, “we are killing _heathens._ There is no such thing as an innocent person in a holy war. The only people free from evil are the chosen ones. Myself. The Bishop. And maybe even you.”

I take a breath, and scowl at him. “As queen, my word is law. I will not tolerate any kind of questioning or disobedience. Defy me again, and there will be repercussions.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Death.”

“You won't kill me,” he says.

I snort, though my irritation is reaching its limit. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because I am the only one you can trust.” With that, he struggles to stand, slowly, and my eyes fall from his face to his powerful thigh, where his hand is braced. It is a monumental effort, so soon after being shot, but at last he is fully upright; he staggers back and rests against the wall.

His eyes are piercingly cold, and I step back automatically. I feel as if he is looking right into my thoughts, picking me apart until I am bare before him.

He manages a step forward, and then another.

A chill runs over me, and I remember that awful creeping darkness, the way he'd slid into my room so soundlessly. _He is someone to fear._ I back up, and he advances on me until my back is pressed against the wall and my heart is in my throat. He stands before me, this ghoul, looking everything like a monster from the darkest of nightmares, with a torn face and horrible scars and dripping blood, all the while staring at me with that furious, hungry gaze.

He leans into me, and I shiver. “I won't leave you again,” he whispers. “Don't ever try to hide from me.”

_Hide from...?_

I can easily imagine this man hunting me down like a beast. The thought is terrifying.

And then his voice shifts lower, into a growl, and I stiffen, his heated breath billowing into my ear: “Because no matter where you are, no matter what you've become, I _will_ find you.”

 _Oh god._ Fear is roiling through me in icy waves. I have never felt so weak, so cowed. His words and posture emanate so much animalistic fury, such threatening possessiveness. I have no idea what he might mean by this, and my mind is whirling.

I am rigid, with this monster looming over me, and I suddenly find my face pressed against dark brown leathers. My eyes widen. He's... hugging me?

Gently. Oh, so gently. It shouldn't feel the way that it does, because in reality I'm mashed up against his chest, so close that I can hear the breath in his lungs, hear his heart beating, and my ribs are squashed against each other so hard that I feel as if I'm going to break but his _hands._ One is pressing me painfully close, and the other is tracing small circles on my lower back, so softly that it makes me shiver.

It's that one bit of gentleness that I focus on, the sweep of his fingers at the small of my back, and I tremble in his arms. Something inside me surges forth, something needing and desperate, something small and afraid and crying.

But I press it back down.

His voice muffled, he says, “And I _will_ protect you.”

We are silent for a few moments, and I wonder at how safe I feel in his arms.

“Prophet,” I say, “who are you _really?”_

He draws back, frowning, and does not answer.

We look at each other for a long time, and I wonder if I might have imagined what had just transpired between us. His face is so closed off—I can't tell what he's thinking or feeling at all. Shouldn't those words have opened him up, given him some kind of expression or emotion? But he is blank-faced, impossible to read.

_I want to know him._

_I want to understand._

But he says nothing.

I sigh. “Never mind. Let's go downstairs, and I'll introduce you to everyone so that they'll know not to shoot you.”

 

Most of the raiders are still awake when I go downstairs, the Prophet right at my heels, although they are settling down and ready for bed. Many of them sleep outside; there are a few rooms indoors, but nothing large enough to house all of them.

I pause to run a finger over one of the end tables, and frown. _Dusty._ Huh. I'll have to get that cleaned up soon.

There's a sudden crash, the sound of shattering glass. My attention is drawn to the other end of the room, where the Bishop is standing—the sound of glass had apparently been from the bottle of Nuka Cola he had been holding. The fizzing liquid spreads over the floor.

He is staring at the Prophet.

“My queen,” the Bishop says, “do you know who this man is?”

“He is the Prophet.”

“He,” the Bishop hisses, “is the man I warned you about! The assassin!”

The holy man stalks towards us, his face twisted in fury, and the Prophet steps in between us—I push him aside and say, “Yes. I know. He already tried to kill me.”

The Bishop falters. “Wh... what? He _did?”_

“I fought him off,” I say placidly, “and he is our ally now. I think he will be valuable to our cause.”

The Prophet and the Bishop ignore my words and bristle at each other. The Prophet's hand rests on his combat knife; the Bishop is a little more subtle, and aside from his taut jaw and flashing eyes, the only sign of his anger is his fingers, constantly rubbing and twitching.

“Stop it!” I snap. “Both of you, you're acting like... like... territorial dogs! What are you gonna do next, start pissing on the floor?”

Bishop clears his throat and offers me a thin smile. Instantly I can see just how forced it is. “My apologies, Queen. I am only... concerned... for your safety. I do not trust this man.”

“Well, fuck you. I trust him. He's going to be staying with us.” I put my hands on my hips, challenging him; he only gives me a scowl and heads back down into the pit. Based on his expression, I have a feeling that this is nowhere near the end of our conversation.

I sigh. “Sorry. I don't think the Bishop is particularly fond of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Don't be childish.”

He pauses. “Do you really trust me?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't before.”

“Hm?”

I assume he means just a few minutes ago, in my room.

“Before.” He is looking around us, still tensed, as if readying himself for attack, but I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. “I suppose you wouldn't remember. I sought to gain your trust then, and I told you things of my past. It doesn't matter now.”

“You're a puzzle, Prophet,” I say with a shrug. “You know I've never met you before.”

“It was... in another life,” he says, and I wonder at the sadness in his voice. “But never mind that. It is good that you trust me. You _must_ trust me. The Bishop is dangerous.”

I start shaking my head. “No.”

“He does not have good intentions. He's leading you to ruin-”

“No!” Fuck, I'm so angry I could pull out my hair. “No, the Bishop is a good man! You don't know him! What he's done for my people!”

“Helena,” the Prophet says. “Do you trust me?”

I bite my lip. “Prophet-”

“Do you _trust_ me?”

“I—yes, I do.”

“Then listen to me. The Bishop is deceiving you.”

“Ugh.” I shake my head and gesture for him to follow me. “We'll talk about this later. But no more baseless accusations, alright? If he's really plotting against me, then... well... I suppose I'll have to deal with it, but you'll have to give me proof if I'm to believe a word of what you're saying.”

Prophet doesn't reply, but I see him taking in my answer, mulling over... over... _something._ Dammit, it's like trying to see past a veil.

“Warriors,” I greet, walking by one of the bedrooms; there are three men inside, all of them shirtless, and I wrinkle my nose before continuing, “This is the Prophet. He is one of us now. Listen when he speaks, and obey him.”

One scoffs, “I ain't listening to no fucking ghoul-” and that's as far as he gets. I am already striding across the room, very calmly, and he is just finishing the last word when I raise my arm and slash his face, along the side of his head, taking an ear and a good bit extra with it. He shrieks in pain and shock, staggering backwards, and when he reaches for his gun, I kick him to the ground.

“Choose,” I say pleasantly. “Your hand or your nuts.”

“Wh... what?” he gasps.

“Your hand touched your gun,” I say. “You were going to shoot me. Now, how should I punish that? Should I take your hand, and make you a less capable warrior, or should I take your nuts and your pride?”

His mouth is agape, horrified, and eventually, pathetically, stammers, “H-hand.”

I nod, thinking it over, and flip my knife once.

Then I take another step forward, and stab right between his legs.

There are multiple screams of agony, both from the warrior and from his two companions, who've leapt back in horror. The offender is writhing on the ground, clutching himself, spurting blood.

“Whoops. Looks like I missed.” I flip my knife once more, and blood splatters my hand. And then I sheathe it. “If you wanna save what's left, you might want to see the Bishop. I'll even allow you to take a stimpak. But you'll have to make it downstairs on your own.”

All the while, the Prophet has only been watching. I'm amused, though, to see that even he looks a bit disgusted by the display. His eyebrows are drawn a little lower than usual, and he's gripping the hilt of his combat knife with a little more force than necessary.

“Prophet, come.”

My companion follows me slowly, and we leave the bleeding man behind.

He speaks after a few moments. “That man will likely die of his injuries.”

“Mm.”

“Why didn't you just kill him instead?”

“Isn't that obvious?” I ask, surprised. “It'll be slower this way.”

The Prophet sighs and nods.

“We'll talk to Roe and Badger next. I am eager for you to meet them. They are good friends.”

We pass Hugo outside, and his eyes are glazed; when I introduce the Prophet to him, he responds with a jumble of slurred words, utterly incomprehensible. The other warriors prove to be a bit more accepting, especially since one of the men who'd witnessed the punishment of the man had come out to warn the others.

“Where's Badger, by the way?”

“Up at the main gate. Want me to get her?”

“Please.” I smile at the warrior who'd offered, a sweet young man with some nasty radiation burns. He nods, and is back soon with my pink-haired friend.

“Hey, what's g-” Her face freezes. “Oh, holy shit.”

Prophet lifts his chin, and _glares._

“Settle,” I order, and sigh. Goddammit, what is it with men and their testosterone? “Badger, I want you two to get along. He's a friend.” I hesitate. “You know where Roe is?”

She nods and jerks her head, and both the Prophet and I move to follow her. The raiders around us fall away, muttering, and go back to their nightly routines.

The Prophet has the gall to step in front of me, and I scowl but don't correct him; something about it feels wrong.

He matches his pace to Badger's. “You were the one that told me she was dead,” he growls, almost too quietly for me to hear. “You're lucky that I haven't put a bullet through your worthless skull.”

“Shit,” Badger mutters. “Look. She was... a little bit better then, and she didn't want you. What the fuck was I supposed to say, huh? Least I didn't say she was dead _for sure._ After all, you're here now, aren't you?”

His fists clench. “I could have prevented this.”

“Oh yeah? _Could_ you?” Her voice is bitter. “Trust me. If you think that it's out of lack of trying, then you're fucking wrong, because I've tried harder than anyone else in this goddamn world and _look at how well I've done.”_

Roe is sitting in his boxers, giggling and rocking back and forth. He's staring at something before him, something even I cannot see; it must be the Holy Flame. His eyes are watering from lack of blinking, and now and then he vigorously shakes his head and resumes his gleeful vigil.

“Hey, baby,” Badger says softly. “How ya doing?”

Roe lets out a choked laugh and shakes his head.

“Not that well, huh?”

He shudders, and Badger reaches out to stroke his arm.

“Roe,” I say, “This is the Prophet. He is our ally.”

The Prophet says, “...I see what you mean. And these symptoms are due to Psycho?”

She shrugs. “A mixture of things. Psycho, Jet, heroin, crystal meth. When we were younger, we used to smoke a lot of botanical stuff together. One of those trips, he lost something important, and... and he never came back.”

“Cherish, baby,” he murmurs. “Why'd you go? We were gonna... we were gonna...”

“Shh,” Badger says, and sits down with him, armored knees pressing against bare thighs. She puts an arm around his waist and tugs him closer, and he nestles his face into her chest. “She's not here anymore, she won't hurt you.”

“I love you, Cherish,” he whispers. A tear leaks from one eye, and the big muscular raider sniffs and sighs, his eyes red-rimmed, his lips beginning to wet and tremble.

“Oh, sweetie, come _back_ to me,” Badger croons, and holds him more tightly. Roe lets out a guttural sound and the shaking intensifies. “Shh. It's okay. It's okay.”

The Prophet is silent for a moment, and I feel his gaze on me. What is he thinking about? The expression on his face is inscrutable. Eventually, he asks her, “Does... does that help?”

“Sometimes,” Badger admits. “Not as often as I'd like. So, can you really blame me for agreeing with her? Telling you to go away? She'd have been mad if you found her, for one—well, she isn't _now,_ but that's hardly the same—and it wouldn't have made a difference. You'd have had to watch her descent, same as us. Knowing there's nothing you can do. Worse yet when you have that pompous asshole encouraging her fucking manic grandiosity.”

“Yes,” the Prophet growls, “I can blame you. I should have been here for her!”

“Oh, and you'd be just fine with watching all this unfold? I _saved_ your ass, you undead freak, and you throw it back and come looking anyway. Even though I told you she was gone, explained every fuckin' detail, and you come back. And for what? This? You promised you'd find a 'cure'. So how'd _that_ one work out for ya, asshat?”

The Prophet's teeth grind audibly, and I take a step away from him; _Jesus._ That guy must have teeth like a Brahmin if he does that with any frequency. “I _tried,”_ he bites out. “I enlisted everyone I could think of—the townspeople, the doctors, the Church of Atom, even the Brotherhood. I sold almost everything we had to pay for this cure. There's nothing fucking left for me, you understand? _She's all I have left!”_

There's a short silence while they face off, and Roe rocks in her arms. A couple dozen meters away, the rest of the raiders can be heard laughing or talking or fucking. The only other sounds are the wind and the crackling of the bonfires spread through the camp.

Badger lets out a shaky laugh and shakes her head. “Goddamn. We're a real pair, aren't we? The only two sane people in this place, and we can't do anything but scream at each other?”

I see a slight smile flit over the Prophet's face, and he nods.

“If that's how it is, then... I'm sorry,” Badger says. “Because I know exactly how you feel.”

Prophet asks, “Are the rest truly insane as well?”

“Well, they're crazy enough to follow her, aren't they?” And both of them turn to glance at me.

I start at that. “Hey, hold up there, are you talking about _me?_ Like I'm not even here—and _I'm not crazy!_ Fuck you both!”

“Sorry,” Badger says, but she doesn't sound very apologetic.

“Seriously!” I growl. “I've just been standing here wondering how the hell the two of you know each other so well, and you're already gossiping in front of me?”

Prophet reaches for me. “Helena-”

“No!” I snap, slapping his hand away. “I'm sick of not understanding what's going on-”

“Badger?”

I shut my mouth the instant I hear Roe's voice. The raider is sitting up, blinking, looking disoriented, but there's still a few tears dripping down his caramel skin. He looks even smaller and weaker without the shine of fiery mania in his eyes.

She frowns. “There you are,” she grumbles. “I thought you were lost for good that time.”

“Me? I ain't going nowhere, darlin'.” He blinks again, seemingly surprised to find that he had been crying. “You doing okay?”

“Me? No, no, I'm fine. I'm good.”

“You don't look okay.”

“Woah, fuck _you.”_

“Oh, come on, Badger, I didn't mean it like that. Now 'fess up. Do I need to go bash some heads in? No one was coming after you, right?”

She laughs. “I said, I'm fine.”

“Promise?”

Badger's quiet for a little. “Yeah.”

Roe squints up at the Prophet, then, and says, “Hey, you... you look familiar. Ch-”

“Enough,” the Prophet says. “If you remember me, then that is enough. Both of you—get out of here. Leave the camp. And don't take anything with you.”

Badger scoffs. “What?”

“You won't want to be here in a few hours,” he continues. “Trust me. Try either north or west, and don't stop.”

Badger raises her eyebrows. “So, the— _oh._ Oh, okay. I see.”

“Wait, you're _leaving?”_ I gasp. “Just like that, just because he told you?”

“I think it's probably the best move,” Badger says. “Come on, Roe, go get dressed. I'll get our guns. We're gonna head out.”

“The Sadist-”

“Not his name anymore. So we don't gotta listen to him.”

“No,” I growl, and I can feel my face flushing red with fury. “ _No!_ Stay right where you are, or, or I'll fucking kill you!”

Badger gives me an apologetic glance. “Sorry, girl. I'm gonna listen to your friend there.”

I wheel on the Prophet, furiously, and slam the heel of my hand against his chest; I only end up hurting, my palm smarting. The Prophet hasn't been pushed back a centimeter. He is staring down at me, almost mockingly, and I am so enraged that if I screamed it would surely split the heavens.

“ _He was right!_ The Bishop was right about you! You're nothing but a coward and a traitor! You fucking-”

He clamps a hand over my mouth. I glare at him, trapped, pinned by his arms, and breathe heavily through my nose. The adrenaline rush is immense, and I'm seeing stars in the corners of my vision.

“Helena,” he says, and his eyes inspect my face cruelly, dispassionately. “Trust me.”

He releases me and I hiss, “Trust you? And let me best warriors and friends walk out without a word? Do you want me to disband the rest of my army, too?”

“That would be preferable, but-” His tone is sardonic.

“Fuck you! God _damn!”_

I turn away, tired and furious. He was right. The Bishop was right the entire time. The Prophet might not be an assassin, but he's here to destroy my mission instead, which is far worse. He's a traitor, he's...

...he's...

...he's wrapping his arms around me, and buries his face against my neck, and I can feel his ragged seams of flesh pressing against the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. His lips, or what's left of them, ghost over my shoulder.

This time, it is not my world that is on fire, but my skin. I feel everything: his heated breath, the whisper of his armor against my dress, and the fine, tender dabs of sticky moisture where his lips have trailed kisses. All the air and tension rushes out of me at once, and his arms tighten to support my weight as I sink down. His chest is so, so broad against my back, and I feel so deliciously vulnerable, having him hold me from behind. His kisses are growing more fervid, and when he moves his mouth from my shoulder to my neck again, I am so surprised by the sensation of his tongue on my flesh that I let out a soft cry.

“Mm,” he mumbles, and repeats the movement.

My knees are jelly. I can't think—I can't move—I can't _think._

He adjusts his grip on me, and the shifting of pressure moves more of my weight against his pelvis and the alarmingly large firmness there. His mouth slackens against my neck, and air rushes out through his nose as he slowly rocks his hips against me.

“Ah!” It's equally a cry of pleasure and distress, but I ignore the former for now as I break free from him, and stare at him in horror. I'm supposed to be a virgin queen—a faithful leader—a holy and righteous woman—

The Prophet's face is closed-off again. “I'm sorry. I... lost my composure.”

“You- you lost your-” I gape at him, my body still burning and tingling with electricity. That's all he's going to say? I'd never felt anything so... so... _what word am I looking for? Amazing? Awful? Great? Guilt-inducing?_ Too much is tangled up inside of me and I feel as if he's flipped me upside down.

“Please, Helena. Let them go on their way,” he says, swallowing. “Trust me for now, if you can't agree to trust me fully; I would prefer if we leave now too, but... maybe... maybe you need some time to think about it.”

My mind is whirling. What else can I do but agree?

 

That night, the Prophet stands outside my door. I try to tell him to go sleep downstairs, outside, wherever he wants, but he refuses to budge. When I finally retire, he is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking every inch the ruthless assassin I had taken him to be.

I wonder what he has prophesied of.

What visions has this man seen? What mysteries has he unraveled? What caused a man like him to be taken by the rot, to shed his humanity and become one of the many afflicted ghouls that roam the wastelands?

And oh _god,_ how is it that after just a few moments in his arms, all I want is to be back with him again? Pressed against him... If he burst into my room right now and stripped me, I don't think I'd be able to utter even a word of refusal.

I wish he would tell me his story. If he had done so before, and _he_ remembers it, then why can't I?

But something tells me that he's being honest. Something begs me to trust him despite everything going wrong, despite Badger and Roe leaving me, despite what the Bishop has said. Somewhere, somehow, I have met him before—he has a familiarity, as if he's someone I've known all my life. But whatever binds us together is an unsteady tether, without any sort of balance—himself coming forward to me, but myself shrinking back in fear; my own searching, and his withholding. Always too much or too little.

I want to remember him.

That night, I have a dream.

_Fwoom. The crash of water beneath me, all around me, as I fall into a deep ocean abyss. Freezing cold, so much that it takes my breath away, and I gasp in salt water that chokes my throat and burns my lungs. I have never been so overwhelmed, so completely swallowed and conquered. The ocean is a living thing around me._

_All direction fails me as I sink. I am going down, down, down..._

_I open my eyes and all around me is tragic beauty that squeezes my heart with its pain. Greens and blues, a forest of colors—fronds of seaweed and billowing ocean plants, all swirling around me, dragging me down, embracing me, smothering me._

_Plants that stretch from the unseen bottom of the waters, all the way to the very top to the sky, thin green leaves swaying in the currents, aquarian ferns. There are hundreds of them here, dancing together, brushing constantly without entangling. I settle down into them comfortably, the way you might fall into a peaceful sleep._

_I allow my arms and legs to be bound and I am dragged down farther. I let out a soundless cry, and the last of the air escapes my lungs—a cry of release, of acceptance, of despair._

_There's no escaping this death. I'm giving up._

_Tragic. So tragic. I've left something behind, on the surface, something that I was reaching for even as I fell into the water, something that I'd cried out for, something that I would die for._

_My heart is breaking._

_The sea plants caress me. My body eventually becomes used to the chill of the water. I float in place, taking in the strange and silent submerged world around me—the gray rocks with the purple marbling, the way the distant sunlight dances on the pale yellow sand._

_“Helena.”_

_...did I hear something? Impossible. I am the only person down here, dead but yet not, eternally suffering, trapped under a hundred feet of freezing water, bitter salt. There is only me, and I am alone, and I will always be alone-_

_“Helena.”_

_There's that voice again._

_“Wake up.”_

_What? No. No, please go away. I don't want you to see me like this._

_“Helena, wake up.”_

_No. I gave up. I gave everything up. I lost everything that mattered most. And you—you are the only one I ever wanted, and I left you alone. I wanted to save myself—please believe me—but I wanted to save you more. Don't ruin my sacrifice. I gave up_ for you. _Don't make me go through this pain. Don't make me lose you again._

_“Helena.”_

_Unwillingly, my eyes turn towards the sky, towards the light filtering down into my darkness, and I see what I had first failed to notice—a shadowy form diving after me, swimming into the depths even as I sink deeper. And I realize that I was wrong. I had been wrong the entire time. Because even as I was giving up and crying out and taking my last breath... I was never alone._

_He was with me all along._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for not posting last week. I was really, really sick, probably the sickest I've ever been in my entire life, hahaha.  
> However! I wrote a bunch of really great things in the past day, and I have this chapter, too, which hopefully is enough to make up for it; it was originally going to be a 7-chapter section, but I added the smut last minute. I hope that's not a problem~  
> I'll see you again soon!


	8. Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw I named Hugo after the singer. "99 Problems but a Bitch Ain't One"? Yeah, that Hugo. :)

“Helena!”

I sit up with a gasp. Confused, disoriented. I'm bra-less and in a white tank top, sticking straight to my skin because I've sweated through my clothes.

He's sitting on my bed, half-kneeling as if ready to step back at a moment's notice. His face is blank, guarded. Gruffly, he says, “You were having a nightmare. And I think you have a fever.”

My hands are shaky and wet. I shiver and wipe them on my sheets, and automatically reach up to adjust my crown.

_What...?_

Something isn't right. It isn't aflame, doesn't fill me with the glow of holiness. I don't feel the flowers, the petals, the leaves charred black. No. It's different now.

It's wet.

My hands are shaking as I remove the crown, and I set it in my lap.

_Oh god. Oh god!_

On the blankets covering my legs is the lower half of a skull. The jawbone, torn from the face of either a Super Mutant or a large man. It's impossible to tell now, because it is too far rotted to identify. What little flesh remains is putrefied, bloated, rotting, and peeling away in chunks of withered black, freeing pale green flesh beneath. All teeth are still intact, and the entire jaw is wet not from the sweat from my night terror, but from a thick orange slime that seems to be oozing from the gums.

I had been wearing a human jawbone the entire time.

Perched on my head like a crown. I'd had it on as it rotted, going from fresh to foulest condition.

_I still have pieces in my hair._

I scream, finally, horrors fighting horrors to escape my lungs. The jaw-crown clatters onto the floor, and I empty my stomach onto the floor beside it.

Arms wrap around me and I'm dragged to the other end of the bed. Muscles like bands of iron, pinning my hands to my chest—

_I can't breathe—_

“Charon,” I gasp.

Everything stops.

There is a pause, an inhaled breath, and then a quiver runs through the body of the man behind me. “What did you say?” he rasps.

“Charon,” I sob, and I pry an arm free to wrap my fingers around his wrist. “Charon.”

He buries his face in my hair, whispering, “You remember me?”

I don't trust myself to speak, so I just nod.

And as Charon holds me, the broken pieces of my world slowly fall back into place.

I was a queen—I was the chosen one—I was a priestess—but those were all things from the Psycho, weren't they? None of it was real. It was a dream, something worse than a dream; it's hazy and distant as if it was a particularly vivid imagining. But though there was no god, and no queen, the things that I said, the things that I did...

All of _that_ was real. The caravans... the innocents... the men I sent down to the Bishop...

 _The Bishop... no, the Sadist!_ My skin breaks out into a cold sweat. He knew. He knew everything, and he never once tried to pull me from my delusions. The only person capable aside from Badger, and he'd threatened her into silence.

My mind turns to Samuel, who had been a normal man until we'd strapped him to the Sadist's table and let him have his way. My mind rushes through all the different, mystical things he'd said, and they make less sense with each pass.

_Oh god..._

I'm sobbing, and all of the past few months of raider life rolls through me through fresh eyes. The killing. The maiming. The insane rituals, burnt offerings, human sacrifice... and at its epicenter was me.

“It was my fault,” I sob. “If I hadn't injected Psycho-”

“You would be dead,” Charon growls. “Don't you dare speak that way. I saw the station after you left. Two slavers and a yao guai in close quarters?”

He shakes his head and presses me closer. “If anyone is to blame,” he murmurs lowly, “it is myself. I am your bodyguard. I am your shield. If I had been paying closer attention, if I had been _doing my job—”_

He takes a deep breath, abandoning that line of thought, and says, more calmly, “Helena, I have failed you.”

“But you came back for me,” I whisper. “Even though I told you to go to Gaja.”

“How could I stay away? Did you really think it would be possible for me to leave you here?” he asks, and my heart clenches. _That goddamn contract._

That's why he came back for me? Because he was compelled to?

Why am I feeling so sad? There's been... no declaration of feelings between us, nothing about our intentions or the permanence of our situation. When I first had sex with Charon, I quite literally pushed him onto my bed and demanded that he have sex with me. Everything I feel for him has only ever been communicated through touch and glances.

And Charon has never mentioned any feelings about me. The most he's said have been some extremely lewd praises of my body during sex, and that's hardly a time for honesty; a horny guy is the dumbest kind you can get.

“I wish you hadn't come.”

I don't realize that I'd spoken the words until I feel Charon still behind me.

“What?” he rasps.

I bite my lip. Tears are pooling in my eyes again, and I curse myself. _Dumb fucking pathetic bitch! Crying about something like this... Stupid!_

“Never mind,” I say.

“No,” he growls, and turns me to face him; I can't look him in the eye.

He's hurt. I hadn't meant to say it, but he's hurt. The seriousness and anger in his voice is enough to tell me, even with just one word.

“Tell me what you mean,” he growls. “You didn't want me to save you? You didn't want me to risk myself? Or is it...”

His voice changes, and becomes softer. “Helena, if... if you formed some kind of relationship with one of these men... I understand if you might want to sell the contract-”

I punch his chest with an angry cry and throw my arms around him. “No! Don't you dare fucking say that, you idiot! I want _you!_ I just wanted you to come because—because—”

“Because?” he asks gently.

“Because I...” And then I blush and fall silent.

He kisses me.

As the priestess queen, I had resolved to try to push Charon away the next time he touched me. And now that those fantasies no longer rule over me, I crumble in his arms. His warm, scarred lips rain kisses on my collarbones, my eyelids, my breasts, before returning to my mouth. His tongue presses into my mouth, searching and insistent. His right hand grasps my breast, and then he makes an impatient sound against my mouth and strips off his gloves.

The world dissolves around us, time stills; we forget about our missions and our failings, our fears and our pride. And all that's left is two people, a man and a woman, baring their vulnerabilities and sharing their burdens.

And I am helpless beneath him.

“Charon...”

His tongue paints patterns on my belly and my breasts; powerful hands knead my curves and explore my body as if he hasn't already done so a number of times. Each sensation is wildfire.

“Charon.”

He groans and presses his face in between my breasts. “What did I ever do to deserve a woman like you?”

I giggle. “Something pretty bad, apparently.”

He gives me a tired smile. “Helena... why do _you_ think I came back?”

I can't look at him. “Because of your contract...”

“Mm, no. Helena. Look at me.”

I do, grudgingly. He is bare and majestic above me, holding himself over me, and I glance approvingly at his taut arms before meeting his eyes.

“Now say it again.”

“You came back,” I say, not breaking eye contact, “because...”

I can't say it.

He smiles, and edges forward; I let out a wordless moan as he slips into me. It takes longer than normal; once again, I'm both unused to and alarmed by his size.

“Helena,” he growls, once he's fully sheathed, “even if I had obeyed you and gone to Gaja, do you know what I would have done?”

“Mm?”

“I would have made her come with me to find that cure. And I would have come back to you.” His breath rushes out onto my skin. “You're the one that I want.”

Well, shit.

 

Roughly an hour later, Charon rolls out of bed with a satisfied groan and stretches. “What's the time on your device?”

I check my Pip-Boy. “Uhm, it's four AM.”

“Shit.”

“Uhm,” I say warily, “why is that a bad thing?”

“The Regulators are attacking at dawn.”

I sit up. “What the _fuck?_ Why are you only mentioning this now?”

“I was... distracted,” he mutters.

I stare, outraged. “Are you insane? Are you _honestly_ telling me that you couldn't think to tell me because you were too busy doin' me dirty?”

“...yes.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, let's get a fucking move on, lover boy.”

 

It takes us a bit too long to get ready; some of my things were downstairs, which meant that we had to creep around as quietly as possible getting everything. And my beloved M1 Garand was packed away in a metal crate, so we take the pieces and go back upstairs to reassemble it.

“So,” I say as I snap the pieces together, “How does this cure work, anyway? Evidently you expected it to be immediate, but it took a few hours to kick in. I mean... I didn't even know that insanity was something you could _cure.”_

“Neither did I,” Charon admits. “It was not easy to obtain. It was manufactured by the Brotherhood of Steel, and the Church of Atom acted as a liaison between us. Very rare, and very, very expensive. If you remember, I mentioned that I sold everything to pay for it; well, don't worry, everything but the house and the robot.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You could have sold the robot.”

“Really?” Charon pauses, and then continues, “Either way it wouldn't have been enough. Given my ghoulification, the Church was receptive. Extremely so. We... we owe them a great deal.”

I furrow my brow. “Uh, how much?”

“Too much.”

“And, so, how much is that?”

Charon sighs. “About four million caps.”

My eyes bulge.

“Part of the reason why it took so long was because they had to collect the funds. Confessor Cromwell got in contact with other Church branches, and money was sent in from cities all across the eastern seaboard. I had no idea there were so many of them,” he says. “But I am thankful. If not for them, you would be...”

I nod.

“Anyway, the solution in the syringe was a mixture of proteins, acids, saline, and biotech,” Charon says, listing them off on his fingers. “Psycho is brain-damaging, so the biotech works to manually repair the connections in the brain.”

“Well, that would be why it's not an immediate cure, then. Cells _do_ take time to grow.”

Charon frowns. “Stimpaks are immediate.”

“Yeah, and they're also messy. They're not always a perfect fix, you know?” I take a deep breath. “Jesus. That's pretty fuckin' scary. Does the biotech shut down eventually?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Last thing I need is for the Brotherhood of Steel to see what's going on inside my brain.”

Charon smirks. “Well, if they are, at least we gave them a show.”

I duck my head, blushing, and his quiet chuckle is all I get in return.

“...thanks.”

“Hm?” He looks up.

My gaze is fixed on my M1, now assembled, a heavy weight in my lap. “I never thanked you. For coming back. I did everything I could to make you stay away, but... you came despite all that.”

His eyes are serious, and he kneels beside me. “I am yours to command,” he says. “It would take far more than that to keep me from you.”

I smile and run my fingers through his hair; he stands up and helps me to my feet.

“Ah, one more thing, before I forget; the Brotherhood doctor said that once the cure takes effect, you need to take two of these.” He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a pill bottle, and drops two small white pills into my hand. “The biotech only repairs connections, not lost brain cells. Apparently these kickstart the brain into growing more.”

I gulp them down. “Fuck yeah. Think they'll make me smarter?”

“I'd settle for more wise,” Charon snarks. “I think at this point you need more common sense than anything else.”

He slips the pill bottle back inside his pocket, but not before I glimpse the fifty milliliter bottle of amber liquid inside.

I gasp. “ _Oh my god! Charon!_ Is that _scotch?”_

He grimaces. “I was saving that for when we were out of-”

“Gimme! Gimme!”

He hands it over with a growl and I down it. “Yes! My darling travel-sized bottle! Awh, this is even the one that I take with me on trips! And you filled it up with my favorite Johnny Walker? Goddamn, you're amazing.”

I think Charon might be blushing. “Well... I did have to sell all of your beloved alcohol... so...”

I deflate. “Even the Glenfiddich?”

He glares. “ _Especially_ the Glenfiddich.”

“Wow, consider my last statement nine hundred percent _revoked.”_ I huff and turn to the door. “It's almost five AM. Shit. Bishop—er, Sadist is gonna be up soon to check his traps. We have to get out of here.”

“Nothing sounds better.”

I step over the jaw-crown and shudder. “Goddamn,” I say, kicking it aside. “I can't believe I wore that thing.”

Charon grunts.

“Alright,” I say, and reach for the doorknob. “You ready for this?”

The door swings open before I can reach it, and I freeze—but it was the wrong move. An impossibly strong hand takes me by the collar and pulls me forward. And standing before us, with a knife leveled to my throat, is the Sadist.

_Shit._

“Back off,” Charon growls. His shotgun is instantly in his hands, and he's glaring down the sights at the man holding me hostage.

“Sadist,” I say, and slowly lift my hands. “Let me go.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Sadist, eh? I suppose it wasn't a bluff, then. You really did find a cure.”

“It's over, Sadist,” I bite out. “I'm not queen anymore, and you're sure as hell not a priest. The kingdom's finished.”

“Oh, I'd say it's far from finished. You see,” he says with a smile, “I still need you. The people need a leader. So, either you can send off your ghoul and resume your position, or I will kill you and use your body as fuel for righteous indignation. The excitement alone of having a leader killed would give our men enough power to take Bigtown and Arefu in the same day.”

Charon growls.

“That means that you're going to put down your weapon,” the Sadist hisses. “ _Now.”_

Charon doesn't move, his eyes blazing. I've never seen a more scorching fire. His gaze is an inferno, mirrors into hells of fury. His rage is dizzying.

“Let her go,” he grunts.

“Put the gun down, you dumb brute,” the Sadist snaps. “Or do you want to see her die?”

Charon shakes his head, growling, and doesn't move. _Uh... Charon? Aren't you going to listen to him? I'm pretty sure he's not playing games!_

“Unless you want your pretty little whore to end up stewed and served at our next meal, I'd suggest you listen to me,” the Sadist sneers. “Although, I suppose you-”

Charon fires. I yelp and jerk back; the Sadist curses loudly and stumbles. There's a rush of warmth at my neck.

My eyes widen in horror. “Charon,” I mouth, and blood trickles into my lungs.

My slave is swearing up a storm, digging through his pockets, and he injects me with a stimpak. I cough up blood for a few seconds, and then turn on the Sadist. The raider is glaring at us, his face a mask of hatred.

“You bastards,” he snarls, “I'll fucking-”

Charon fires again and the Sadist flies backwards. I know that just beneath his vest lined with torture tools is a bulletproof vest, but I don't have to worry about that.

Because, I live on the second floor.

The Sadist stumbles on the first step, flailing in a hurried attempt to grab the hand rail, but it's too late. There's a momentary pause, and then there's a crash as his head smacks into the stairs. Followed by a series of thuds and then silence.

Charon and I look at each other.

“Is... isn't anyone going to check to see what's going on?”

I shake my head. “Chare. We're _raiders._ Random gunfire at all hours of the night is perfectly normal.”

I lead the way down the stairs, fear mounting in my throat. What will we find at the base of the stairs? I have this awful feeling that I'll go down there, only to find that disgusting man grinning at me with his knives.

The Sadist is laying crumpled on his back, his eyes glassy and staring. His chest is moving rapidly.

“Shit, he's still _alive?”_

Charon lifts his shotgun again, growling, but I stop him. “Not now. If someone _does_ poke their head out of their room...”

He grumbles but slides the shotgun back over his shoulder.

I take a few seconds to look at the hall—what had once been a palace was a ruin. There are no carvings in the walls, no gold inlay, no precious gems. My throne is nothing but a beat-up old lawn chair, although the gory decoration on the wall behind it looks exactly as I remember it. Samuel, a dead-eyed angel, hideous and twisted and macabre, drying out instead of rotting from the heat. His wings of nerves and veins are tangled and shriveled.

 _God._ I shudder again at the thought of what the Sadist did to him—broke his mind so completely, pulled back the edges of reality so far that they had torn away. I will always have nightmares of what I saw and heard on that day.

I'm not a saint. I'm not a pastor or a priestess. But for the first time in nearly a full year, I bow my head and pray—and _not_ to the flame deity. “Dear God... if you exist, and if you haven't damned me already, at least listen to your child's request: have mercy on his soul.”

If anyone needs it, it's him.

We leave the palace, and Samuel's sightless eyes continue to watch us. His gaze is only broken by the door, and the locking of it behind us.

 

Charon echoes my own thoughts when he pushes a table in front of the door. If anyone is going to come after us, I'd rather have it be a minimal number of people. At least _some_ of the raiders are trapped inside now. The rest, though...

I glance around, looking at the sleeping bodies around us. A few yards away, Hugo stands drunkenly, still high off his ass on Jet.

It's not enough. Even with Badger and Roe gone, even with Charon and I fighting with the Regulators, it's going to be tough odds.

Charon's hand grabs my shoulder, as I step forward to grab a bottle of vodka. “The hell are you doing?” he hisses.

“Righting a wrong.”

And I open the bottle and dash it across the walls.

One of the only things that I'd gotten right about the 'palace' was that all the materials I'd had my raiders collect were wooden. They'd used whatever they could get their hands on to build my palace—crates, trunks of dead trees, boards taken from the ruins of houses and wardrobes. And, all this wood has been sitting out in the hot sun for weeks on end. Meaning, it's as dry as a Californian state park. And it'll burn just as well as one.

“Charon,” I whisper. “Do... do you maybe have a lighter?”

I carry one with me sometimes, but after living as queen for months on end, I relied upon my men to take care of my needs.

Wordlessly, he hands one over.

_Click._

I scowl. “The fuck? Nothing happened.”

_Click._

“It sparked, but-”

_Click. Click. Click._

“Goddammit!”

“Shut up! You're doing it wrong!” Charon tears it from my hands impatiently.

_Click._

“You goddamn show-off.”

“I was being helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“If I'd left you to figure it out on your own, we'd have been here until dawn.”

The vodka catches instantly, and the flames rush to cover the entire stain; I step back and the whole wall catches. It's an instant conflagration, and already there are raiders lifting their heads and blinking at the light.

“Run!” Charon hisses, and I shake my head.

“We need to get Suzie and Marie out first!”

“Who the fuck-”

“Charon, the _Brahmin.”_

“We're— _what?”_

“They're Roe's pets,” I say firmly. “He loves them.”

“Well, maybe he should have taken them with him then!” Charon hisses sardonically. Though, there isn't much point to his argument now because I'm already grabbing their halters.

“Come on, ladies, come on!” Goddamn animals don't move very fast. Suzie moos in distress, eyeing the fiery palace, and Charon scowls and slaps their butt. That startles them into movement, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

There are screams coming from the bed and breakfast. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of the men and women trapped inside, shrieking so horribly, their flesh bubbling and charring even as their blistering eyes watch.

“My queen!” one of the raiders shouts. “The fire—we moved the table but the lock is too hot-”

Charon slits his throat. “Faster, dammit!” he pants in my ear. “The Regulators should be here any minute! You wanna get caught up in that cross-fire?”

No, I do not.

The first shots ring out when we're fifty yards away. Charon and I turn back to look; I fire my M1 into the air and Suzie and Marie take off as fast as they can.

“See ya,” I mutter. “Hopefully you can catch up with Badger and Roe.”

The screams of the trapped raiders, somehow, seem louder from this distance. The camp is entirely alight now, even the outer walls. The flames have shot up to the tower room, where I had spent so many nights; the palace is encased in flame. A burning raider flees the gates, running towards the river, and another burst of gunfire from the Regulators drops him. His body smolders in the dry grass.

And yet the screams continue.

I shudder, and Charon stands by me, resolute. _Oh god... when will they finally_ die? At the time, I'd thought to spare lives, to make the Regulators' jobs easier... but to cause this much suffering... it's disgusting, it's wrong, it's barbaric...

The bed and breakfast screams as well. Not in the same way; it's in the crashing of beams, the groaning of the structure, the popping when the flames penetrate deeper and deeper into the wood, eating it alive. It is the brightest thing in the wasteland, as brilliant as a fallen star.

For a brief moment, as I watch, I think I see a shadowy figure at the window in the tower. If it _is_ a person, then they're quite calm; they are standing still, not even trying to escape. The hellish light reflects off of the sharp horns of a Brahmin skull—it tips forward as the figure tilts its head, turning its gaze towards me. I gasp—there's no way that anyone would be able to see this far into the darkness. It's impossible—and just as I'm thinking that, I see a gleam of sharp teeth beneath the skull, a hungry, clever, grinning mouth shrouded by darkness and masked by the bones of the dead.

There's a huge burst of flame, and the figure is gone. I breathe a long sigh of relief.

It was probably just my imagination anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading until the end. I know that this one was harder to get through than the others, and I left Charon out of most of it (I'm sorry! Don't hurt me!) but I'm so thankful for those of you who stayed.  
> Because~ I have a little treat for you. This is not the end of the story, although we are nearly at our close; up next will be a highly delicious pair of one-shots featuring non-Helena POVs. Yes, you heard that right! I'm (briefly) changing POVs after over 100,000 words of material.  
> After *those two* are done with their stories, Love and Other Deadly Sins will resume with the finale, Power and Other Deadly Sins. The series will be concluded with a stand-alone epilogue.
> 
> (I do have three additional stories I could throw in there, but I'm not sure where to sort them... one is about Charon and Helena looking for the son of Charon's old employer (before Ahzrukhal), one of them is a Charon POV about his own journey while Helena was moonlighting as a Psycho-crazed raider, and the last is a very short Greek Mythology cross-over with the premises being Charon's and Helena's meeting in the Underworld-the REAL one, the one with the river Styx and the boat and stuff. Shenanigans ensue. Anyway, what do you guys think? Should I do one or all of them? Please comment and let me know!)


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